


This Unfamiliar Road

by J3 (CaseMatthews)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Dean Winchester, Abused Sam, Alpha Castiel, Alpha Gabriel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Assassins & Hitmen, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Alastair/Dean Winchester, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi, Okay I'll stop now, Omega Dean Winchester, Omega Sam Winchester, Pregnant Sam, Prostitution, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn, Underage Sex, alternative universe, but - Freeform, eventually, load of crap before much of fluffy just fyi, seriously, that's enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:32:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2372975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseMatthews/pseuds/J3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have been living as whored out omegas under Alastair's reign for a damn long time and, to be honest, they never really saw much of a light at the other end. But when two mysterious strangers sneak into the house at night and butcher their kidnappers, hey, there's the sun. Who knew living with two assassins could feel so much like safety?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prayer You Can Borrow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Unfamiliar Road-](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363729) by [J3 (CaseMatthews)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseMatthews/pseuds/J3). 



> Hey, so this is me rewriting This Umfamiliar Road because I want to :). You don't have to read the longer version because I'm not a big fan of how it's written (a little better in later chapters though btw) but if you want spoilers, feel free :). Then again, looking back, it's pretty much a completely different story so.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE TAGS:  
> Sam and Dean go through some serious shit. Really. Rape, abuse, torture, forced sex with each other...it's a really messed up little tale so this is fair warning for anything even slightly triggery regarding such, making sure you all know. This lasts throughout the story, although the main perpetrators get butchered in this chapter, these guys are still victims and as such have a long road ahead of recovery.  
> Also, mpreg. Don't like guys, don't read.  
> Underage, Sammy is sixteen and Gabriel is like thirty. Also, omegas in this story age at a slower rate than either Alpha or Beta for some unknown, completely selfish reason, so Sam's still his lil mite self at sixteen instead of out amazonian giant, and Dean at twenty looks about sixteen, so... there you go.   
> Christ, enjoy...ha!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

Today is a normal day for Castiel Novak.

He’s sure the majority of people (alpha’s included) would self-righteously disagree with him, but, as it usually happens, Castiel would ceremoniously and very gladly tell them to go and fuck themselves. Because Castiel knows what he does is a blind sight better than scrawling crap on paper and thinking that’s going to do shit for omega rights. He actually _does_ something. And he does it with an air of dignity and atonement that comes with a ridiculously satisfying job. So screw the pencil pushers, as Jo would say.

Alright, so he’s a killer. But that sure as hell doesn’t mean he can’t be one of the best in the business, and by God, is he. But he’s not mindless. He’s an attack dog, sure, he’ll give them that, but it’s takes brain to do this job, not just brawn. And Castiel—the most dangerous man you should ever wish to meet with your knot buried in a whimpering omega—has both.

So today, Castiel wakes in the morning—he runs for a few hours, to and from his nearest neighbours house three miles away—returns home and drinks the coffee Gabriel makes him. He showers at his brother’s petty insistence, he dresses in the day’s clothes, and he returns downstairs to strategize with his team. It doesn’t take long. Considering this is the random-numbered whorehouse they’ve invaded and ruined grandly, it generally doesn’t take more than a few hours to decide the kills and their entry. So they’re on their way in under two, Gabriel and Castiel in one car, Balthazar and Anna in another. They need room for the omegas after all.

The omegas in Alastair Grey’s ‘care’.

To tell the truth, Castiel knows little about them besides the basic—two boys, one underage, both terrified—but as far as he’s concerned it doesn’t matter. As long as he gets them out of there and snaps Mr Grey’s neck, all’s well as far as he can see.

Mr Grey. A repulsive human being. An alpha so far from the eyes of the law and so celebrated in media speculation for his _fantastic_ work in eco-economics. And Castiel would like to believe _‘if only people knew the truth about what he did in his spare time’_. But that would be pointless because he knows most people wouldn’t see it as what it is. The boys would be help-projects, orphans or abuse-cases he’s doing a great justice by housing.

But, yes. It’s 'a fucked up world they live in'.

**-=Ω---- _D_ \----Ω=-**

Dean’s pretty much begging to any flouncy angel chick perched up on a cloud there that today is a good day. _Yeah, you know, Alastair, a_ good _day. When you don’t fucking torture my baby brother in our own bed, good._

Fuck.

How is this their life, seriously?

Yesterday was a good day. Alastair had been flouncing off somewhere to a business meeting with his asshat-partner Azazel bright and early, and Dean had spent the majority of his time wound around his Sammy on the library floor—negotiating which Justice League character they’d allow the other to have. Dean’s Batman and Wonder Woman, obviously, dude, it’s the arms all round—and Sam had Superman and Black Canary, who took the kid some serious negotiating for Dean to give her up. Jo made them sandwiches, which was a rare treat. Not on her part, or anything, she likes doing it, but it’s rare that Ruby doesn’t have her skanky ass nose all up in their businesses. Bitch.

But Jo’s nice. Obviously Dean doesn’t _like_ her—she works for Alastair, come on—but she’s nicer to them than the others. And even if she’s only worked here for a couple of months, she gets that Sam’s more important than anything and she helps Dean when he’s too delirious to move him very far enough away from Azazel. It’s the drugs, generally.

Last week…well, Dean likes not thinking about last week. Not that he remembers much of it anyway, but every time he’s brought it up since, Sammy’s eyes have gone that weird watery texture that means Dean wasn’t in good shape _at all_ , so yeah, Dean ignores it. The burns on his legs and back give him a pretty good jist anyway.

For now, luckily, it’s a decent day. Not _good_ , because Alastair said he was coming back today with Azazel and they wanted them dressed and ready for the evening greetings, but decent because Sammy’s got that dopey grin on his face that means he’s not exactly _here_ anymore and wherever he is is pretty freaking awesome. Dean glances at his book: _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. Shocker, Sherlock Holmes. Dean snorts at him.

He flicks his gaze up, still smirking, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dean rolls his eyes and leans back in his armchair (the giant burgundy one next to Sam Alastair says is junk and never steps foot near, the one Dean buries himself into every chance he gets) and grins, kicking a toe towards his brother. “Whatcha reading there, geek boy?”

Sam grins back at him, sitting up and edging closer until his scent is _right there_ and _omegafamilyhome_ , shuffling like he did as a kid. A younger kid. Whatever. “Sherlock. You know, you should read it, Dean, it’s really cool, ‘cause there’s this dog that everyone thinks is, like, a demon thing, but actually…what?” His eyebrow flicks up.

Dean snorts. “Nothing, little brother, nothing. You’re just a freak, you know that right?”

Sammy rolls his eyes, but that smirk stays, the one that says _‘whatever, big bro, at least I’m smarter than you’_ , “Yeah, I know,” he says proudly.

Then that frown comes and that smirk goes and he says, “Hey Dean?” his voice weird and timid. “Alastair said he was coming back today, right?”

Round eyes hopeful.

Dean winces. “Yeah, Sammy, he only went to Cali. Why?”

The book finds itself on the floor in a despondent, neglected little heap and it’s reader circles closer with wide hazel eyes that give everything away. Dean sighs.

Sam peers closer, hands like paws on the floor between his sprawled out thighs. “D’you…d’you think he’ll have Azazel with him?”

“Sam…” Dean starts because really, lie to his baby bro and watch his shoulders deflate with false hope or tell the inescapable truth and watch him drift away into that pitiful little omega in preparation for that fucking piece of shit _bastard_ —

“No, but see,” Sam says, a slightly manic grin forming his face as he crawls up, sloping up the side of the chair and leaning until he can mash his torso with the legs of Dean’s old jeans, “sometimes he’s too tired, right? Like last month when they only went to Vegas and that’s still in the state and he went straight home and didn’t come back for like ages. Right? Dean?”

Shit. “Sammy,” Dean huffs, gripping shortly at his brothers arms, he hauls him up to his lap to perch. He guides his brother’s head gently to his throat and offers the same treatment, inhaling his brother’s scent along his shirt collar. “Pretty sure that’s only ‘cause he was so fucked up. And didn’t wanna give you crabs from those dodgy stripper chicks at the Spearmint Rhino,” Sam smiles into his clavicle. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. He’ll probably be too tired for the drugs anyway, so how ‘bout tonight we sneak out into the kitchen, huh? Jo said she made flapjack yesterday and she needs someone to share it with. And, hey, what Alastair doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?”

Right. As if they’d risk sneaking out of their room in the middle of the night to go raid the kitchens. If they had a death wish, there’s quicker ways to go about it. But it helps Sam enough that his scent unclogs slightly and his hands loosen from tiger claws at Dean’s shoulders, so it has it’s desired effects.

They sit quietly for a few seconds, Sam sat splayed over Dean’s lap with his face buried at Dean’s collar and Dean, the pillow for the day, crossing his legs over his brother to complete their knot of limbs and all but drugging himself on his brother’s scent. He surreptitiously weaves his fingers to press at the point of Sammy's lower back, massaging his tail bone and earning a quick, unnoticed purr. It’s nice. It’s _good_.

“Are we gonna be here forever, Dean?” Sam asks quietly, arching his spine.

Dean sighs and watches it ruffle his brother’s hair.

“No. No, Sammy, okay? You’re not dying in here, baby brother, I promise you that. I _promise_ , baby.”

Sam huffs at the wet patch he’s left on Dean’s throat and Dean shivers at the sensation, pulling him closer. “Not a baby, Dean.”

“I know, Sammy. I know.”

  
*

  
They come back at seven o’ three.

Dean hasn’t moved Sam off him since they settled here this morning and he hadn’t planned to until they were both rotting, hundred-year-old corpses, but plans change, right? Ruby sticks her dumb fucking head through the door at about twenty to seven and tells them to hurry the fuck up and change or else, so they crawl away from each other begrudgingly and traipse up to their room.

Alastair gave them set clothes for different crap years ago. Some were tailored, for Christ’s sake, and wasn’t that a shitty affair? Dean dreads to think what’ll start happening if Sam grows more and the little gaps at wrist and ankle actually become _noticeable_.

‘Evening greetings’ is Alastair’s code for _‘both of you will be fucked into the mattress and whether or not you get battered in the process depends on your attitude’_ and so on and so forth. Basically, it just means fresh, smart-enough clothes without stains (so nothing they’ve worn during the day) that can be peeled of quickly so as not to irritate said peeler. Alastair for Dean and Azazel for Sammy as it has been for the last four years. Not to say that Alastair doesn’t enjoy giving Sam a go every now and then, the same way every other alpha Alastair’s ever worked with doesn’t enjoy giving Dean a good ride from time to time. It’s just how life works.

Dean picks out their clothes as Sam waits on the bed, fiddling with the cover and picking at the odd dried blood speck. A grey jumper with brown elbow pads (Azazel picked it out, said it made him look older) and dark jeans for Sammy—a pair of black dress boots because when Alastair came home one time and they’d been waiting on the floor without shoes on, he’d made them beg—and Dean combs his hair out, kissing soft pecks along his neck.

People tease them sometimes, about how they touch each other. Alastair says it’s because they just wanna fuck like the sluts they are—some of his ‘buddies’ say it’s a dependency issue and Alastair should knock it the fuck out of them right now before they grow unruly. But some people get it. Like Jo, she knows Dean’s always touching Sammy—and vice versa—because that way they can smell home and they can feel it and taste it and they can stop themselves dropping completely of the edge. She’s never said as much of course, but Dean can tell. He can read the sadness in her eyes.

Dean shoves on his own clothes before joining Sam and making their way out—the forest green shirt Alastair likes him wearing, dark jeans like Sammy’s and these poncey black suede shoes.

The house is big, but by now they know it like the backs of their hands; it's their territory, of course they do. From their room they take a right and walk the corridor a way, descending the side stairway and entering the main hallway like good little omegas—sinking to their knees, waiting on their assigned, initialled rugs. Like dogs.  _Jeese_.

Seven o’ three exactly, because Dean was watching the wall.

Edgar comes in first, but they’ve already heard the car outside and winked and smiled in passing at the other from their assigned seats across the room, so they don’t jump. They just bow their heads at the opening of the door and wait.

Azazel next, bounding in and guffawing, sharing a joke with Alastair as the other Alpha joins him. Dean blinks at his hands and waits.

“Well ain’t that a sight for sore eyes?” Azazel jibs, pausing in the entryway and looking over the both of them, head slinking slowly from side to side. Drunk then. Awesome.

“My good boys,” Alastair says, stepping up behind his friend. “Fucking beautiful, is what they are.”

Dean hears it before he senses it, scuffling on the other side of the room as Sammy’s dragged into standing, a wet gasp pushed from his mouth as he hangs, bewildered, in Alastair’s grip. Dean gulps as the scent hits him, surprised and laced with blues of fear, damp around the edges as his lips are crushed and he’s shoved back, pressed against the wall by a whole length of Alpha. Dean keeps his own scent in check and holds in the worry and hot rage because it never ends well if Alastair smells his anger. Last time it happened Sammy was still crying and bleeding from Azazel’s hands when he came down and joined them in the living room, the bastard came in and laughed, then fucking jerked him off, right there on the couch where Dean was leaning. He’d been over the other side of the room with a throbbing head and a bloody nose in two seconds flat after Alastair had gotten a whiff of him and Sam hadn’t gotten to come, so yeah, Dean doesn’t let his scent betray him much anymore.

Sam moans lowly, which means Alastair has a hand down Sam’s pants and is shoving a finger or two into his hole.

The movement stops a short while later and Dean listens as his brother’s body slumps against the wall, panting.

“I think my little boy here’s gonna need a dose, Azazel,” Alastair says as though he’s considering, once he’s nearer Dean’s side, slinking back to his favourite and Dean can all but _feel_ Sam’s tension. He almost doesn’t keep his own growl in check. “Little shit still can’t get wet without it,” but his voice is somewhat fond and humoured, so Dean doesn’t bother getting worried. Alastair taps him on the shoulder and he rises.

“Mm, Sammy doesn’t mind that, do you, baby?” Azazel hums, his voice muffled at Sam’s throat. “We can still get you begging, can’t we, my little trooper?”

Sam mewls, a pressure inevitably on his dick, and follows Azazel when he moves away—Dean watches him go with a hand in the alpha’s from the corner of his eye. Alastair taps a finger to the skin at the corner of Dean’s eye and Dean offers him his sight with a sigh, flicking his gaze from one grey eye to the next.

“There he is, my little man,” Alastair hisses in that creepy-ass voice of his, the same finger tracing the lines of Dean’s face.

“Evenin’, sir,” Dean greets, his voice rough. Alastair smirks down at him.

“My, my, you are just _broken_ aren’t you?” Dean grits his teeth because he fucking _hates_ that question. Alastair’s been using those words to shove Dean on the ground since their fifth month here, because he _needs to protect Sammy_.

“Yes, sir,” Dean mutters in return. Alastair chuckles.

“Good boy. Now how about we go have some fun, hmm? I’ve missed my little slut.”

So Alastair leads the way into the living room and Dean follows, head bowed and eyes lowered because he’s just good like that.

**-=Ω---- _C_ \----Ω=-**

It takes little over twelve hours to arrive in Nevada, and Castiel’s been ready for every single one of them. Disregarding the fact that Gabriel insisted Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak record on full volume would be a ‘perfect road trip album’, or so he had put it, he’s been practically _vibrating_ in the need to escape the stuffiness of the car, clutch his gun like a fifth limb and slink into the house to put a bullet in the alphas’ utterly _psychotic_ brains.

So when Anna’s car finally pulls to the side of a dusty road and the pair get out (terrifying even to a man of the trade in their blacked out gear) he practically flies from the car to Gabriel’s resounding chuckle behind him. Fresh air never felt so good.

“Right,” Anna says lowly once Gabriel and Castiel get to them, voice as stern and serious as it always gets on a job. She nods to the map in front of her and points out a door on the West side, “I’ll get us in here, Jo’s already disabled the alarms, there shouldn’t be any problems. Apparently the lock’s a bitch, but that’s why you’ve got me, right?” She clears her throat and frowns down at the paper on the hood of their SUV. “Me and Cas’ll have this floor; Jo says Grey’s usually in… _this_ living room this time of night, so we’ll have an enclosed chance for you to gank him, cool? Not enough staff to worry about right now, Jo says she’ll take care of them; you just worry about Grey and getting that kid out. Gabe, Bal, you guys’ll go up this staircase,” she follows it with a black-silk finger. “The other alpha’s usually in this room right here, fucking up the second omega, so go in gently, you don’t wanna spook him more than you already will.” She looks round at them all expectantly, “Good?”

Castiel nods. “Awesome,” Gabriel grins.

And then they’re off.

It’s a relatively short walk—dipping under branches and leaping over one particular stream that has Gabriel and Balthazar in a very short pushing fight—and they arrive, right outside the door Anna mentioned.

It takes three minutes for Anna to pick the locks (with some piece of equipment Castiel doesn’t bother paying much attention to) and another four for them to locate Jo, waiting in a darkened corner by the kitchens, her belongings in bags around her.

They greet each other silently and Jo waves her gun at them, her favoured Bull G.Cherokee. The servants are already dead then, good.

Now it’s Castiel’s turn in charge. Anna plans the missions, Castiel executes them and he and Gabriel do the killing. Balthazar’s backup, like Anna is inside the houses. It’s rare they’re needed, but it’s comforting all the same.

Castiel watches Jo leave through the door they entered before turning back to the house, motioning one way with the tip of his Glock and quirking a brow. Anna nods, and they venture towards the living room together, Balthazar and Gabriel leading the way upstairs, following Castiel’s hand gesture.

Closer by they hear voices, murmurs at first, twisting through the wood towards them in an enchantment that draws them in like fish to a stream. Castiel waits with his shoulder to the door and his gun at the floor, silent. Anna mirrors him on the other side and they both listen.

“So, Dean,” comes a rhythmic voice, a thing from a child’s nightmares and probably straight from the omega’s. “Tell me. I've been informed our alarm system has failed us again—I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you, hmm?”

Another voice grunts—lighter this time, edged, as though the owner is tightly wound enough that everything leaving his mouth has to be analysed and deemed appropriate enough to avoid punishment. What a tiring existence that must be.

“Sir, I…no,” panicked. “ _No_. I promise, I wouldn’t even know where to start anymore, I swear I haven’t touch anything…”

It’s like a top G violin string carving its way through Castiel chest, unrelenting. He winces with its chords.

“Quiet, Dean, get back to it,” the eerie voice—Alastair, it has to be—grunts shortly before continuing, just as strong as before, “You wouldn’t lie to me, little boy, I know that. Because you know, I haven’t touched Sammy for a while…he hasn’t been under my blade for a long time, not like you Dean. Of course, he doesn’t scream nearly as pretty as you do, my dear, but he must be feeling a little… _left out_ by now wouldn’t you say?”

A wet pop sounds and a dry voice, taut with emotion “Please, sir, we haven’t touched anything, Sam hasn’t done anything, please don’t hurt him—” a pause with a wet sigh, “—I’ll do anything for you, alpha, okay? Please, I’ll-I’ll make it so good for you please, you can cut me, just don’t…”

Skin against skin, harsh, flat, limbs tumbling to the floor, “I said shut up, Dean. And you should know by now, boy, _no-one_ tells me what I _can_ do, _especially_ , my precious little slut, not you.”

The omega cries out then, harsh but laced with a sloppy quality like blood’s involved and Christ, Castiel is through that door in under a second flat.

The omega’s panting on the floor, pinned by the throat beneath a heavy boot and lying completely still bar his heaving chest, emerald green eyes wide and terrified, staring up at the man above him and not even noticing the two new alpha’s entrance. Castiel sneaks closer to Alastair and the boy (not boy, early twenties, late teens) and it’s him, the one pinned under foot with his arms splayed like a sinful sacrifice, that notices first. Those eyes go wide and hands flail, scuffling over black dress trousers in their haste for Alastair’s attention with a choked out “Alas-”, only to be rewarded with a deeper press, choking now, and a growl from the man above him. The omega goes quiet but he doesn’t stop staring. Castiel cocks his gun and Alastair freezes.

He turns slowly but doesn’t release his hold.

He smiles, like a snake, and tilts his head.

“Looks like the alarm mystery’s been solved,” he says, slinking his hands into his pockets, chilled, as though he doesn’t have a throttled omega stamped under his shoe.

“Looks like,” Castiel agrees.

“I have money, you know,” Alastair says conversationally. “Lots of it. Omega’s too, I’m sure we could come to some arrangeme-”

Castiel shoots him with a hole to the head, perfectly central to the eyes, and he falls to the floor in a heap.

The omega sits up with eyes like saucers and Castiel’s heart aches watching him gawp down at Alastair, watching him take the last thirty seconds into his brain and process it before blinking over widely to Castiel.

Something pinches deep inside Castiel at the omega’s gaze. At his scent. That fucking _scent_ , holy shit, he hadn’t noticed it before, not really, not with the adrenaline, but now…Jesus Christ. It’s beautiful. And belatedly, he notes the lack of fear in it. The lack of terror and injustice, of… _anything_ , really, anything Castiel usually relates to watching your alpha die over you.

But when he climbs slowly to his feet and wipes a quick hand over his mouth, clearing away blood and…something else that makes Castiel want to shoot that bastard all over again, the room fills with something even sweeter than that. It fills with hope, relief, _power_.

“Hello,” Castiel says.

“…Hi,” says the omega. “You gonna kill me?”

Castiel shakes his head, “No.”

The omega nods and looks back to the floor, back at Alastair. “’kay.”

**-=Ω---- _G_ \----Ω=-**

As much as Gabriel detests the man this house belongs to (and he really fucking does), he can’t deny the bastard’s style. He’s pretty sure he spied a home cinema a few rooms back and he could definitely get behind that one, oh yeah. Swimming pool too, by the way, and, like, ten bedrooms that smell _divine_ —like omega slick and sweet omega scent filtering the whole goddamn house and Gabriel misses that like he’s sure he’d miss _air_ …

Right. _Right_ , the job at hand, Gabriel’s totally on it.

Anyhow, big house, right?

A hundred doors later and Balthazar comes to a stop, cocks his face slightly and sniffs at the air before grimacing and nodding Gabriel forwards. Gabriel mimics the alpha—tilts his face as he toes closer to the end of the corridor, sucks in a giant breath and _there_. Omega. Not just remnants of omega sex stuck to the carpet, this is fresh and wonderful and bitter and terrified, and Gabriel’s over to the closed white door in under five seconds flat, holding in a growl at the litany’s of curses, whimpers, whines…

“Such a fucking slut, Sammy-boy, I fucking love it, come on baby, show me how you do it, come on, Sammy,” is gruff, used and the omega undercurrent, like the most depressing orchestra that ever existed, a litany of wet grunts, keens, moans (but seriously not the good kind) and bedsprings, headboard banging.

Gabriel opens the door and, quietly, despite the loss of style, makes his way into the room. Balthazar stays back because they worked out long ago how to play this game.

An omega tied to the bed is the first thing Gabriel sees. Flushed little thing, skinny, male, delicious, beautiful, _slick…hurt_ , Gabriel, _hurt_. Forced slick, obviously, he barely looks old enough to have had his first heat yet, Jesus Christ. Smells like heaven though. Arms bound by a tie to the iron rungs of the headboard, shaggy chestnut hair a curtain over his tear-streaked face, whimpering, gagged…

 _Gagged_. The bastard fucking _gagged_ him.

Oh, fuck that.

Gabriel eyes the alpha next and looks quickly, with assessing eyes, for the most painful way to end him. He’s buried in the boy—not knotted, thank God, but getting there, bulge pushing in and out to every grunt of a whine—hands like claws at his hips, fitting his fingers neatly over old bruises, irritating them and stemming them back to life again, coaxing them back to purple and red, his shirt still hanging from his shoulders.

Gagged him. Fucking hell.

“You gagged him? _Really_?” Gabriel can’t help but say, stepping closer and folding his arms around the gun in his right hand that he’s already decided not to use. He watches with sick, totally warranted glee as the alpha—Azazel, did Anna say?—jolts in his movements, surprised, probably two or three thrusts away from burying himself in the boy, and he pulls out with a sick pop. Omega-kid keens and slumps forward, head down, not looking. Gabriel wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t even notice this new alpha’s presence.

“What the fuck?” Azazel pants hoarsely, glaring Gabriel over.

“Gagged him. Christ, that pisses me off, you know that? Like when something just gets your goat and, _man_ , gagging omega's...my nails on a chalkboard. Dunno why, man, but damn, I fucking _hate_ it. Gonna enjoy ending you though, so hey, win win, right?” Gabriel says, waltzing closer.

The omega glances up then, brow narrowed but eyes wide and so freaking hazel, Jesus _Christ_. Gabriel offers him a wink.

“Gagged him…?” Azazel trails off, before looking sharply back to Gabriel with a smirk, squaring his shoulders, and growling in a challenge. No gun. Nope, bare hands, broken neck, God, yeah. “Oh, you pathetic piece of shit. He’s a goddamn omega, you idiot. Is that why you’re here? Oh god, no, don’t tell me, it is isn’t it? Ha, _priceless_. Well, you know what?” He looks back at the boy, “Have him. Worthless piece of shit anyway, keep him all I care,” he grabs the boys chin and yanks his face up, earning a croaked hiss through flushed red skin. “Hey, Sammy. This alpha here? He’s gonna take you away now, okay? You’re never gonna see your brother again, baby boy, you’re gonna die in a cold cell all alone, stuffed full of alpha come—”

He stops talking when Gabriel slits his throat. He gurgles for a while, sure, clutches at his throat, then at the bedspreads as he falls, but he doesn’t talk anymore, and people don’t believe in blessings. A quick bullet to the heart finishes him nice and quick, though, and Gabriel steps over the bleeding corpse to perch on the bed.

The omega’s a vibrating ball of fear by now, but Gabriel’s not exactly surprised.

So he starts out slow. “Hey there, little man,” he says with a smile, offering his open palms (the weapons stashed safely out of sight on his person). “Am I cool to get this thing off ‘a you? We won’t touch it’s okay.”

Wide eyes. Sweaty, messy hair hanging low over his forehead, red-hued skin. Slick. Everywhere.

The boy nods.

“Okay. That’s good kiddo, we’ll just get this thing off you, then I’ll untie your hands, cool?” Another nod.

The gag—at closer inspection—is a navy blue, silk, probably fucking designed for it, and impossible to untie. Shit. Gabriel tries for over the head, but it’s too low down, too far beneath the skull for it to go anywhere, and the kid whines in displeasure, jerking out of his grip.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, little guy, it’s okay,” Gabriel says, producing his palms again. “We’ll get this off, okay?”

But when he slides the knife from its sheath at his thigh—still bloody from _Azazel_ down there—the boy jerks back further, hissing, yanking against the headboard but shoving away too, exploding tears down his cheeks, keening high in his throat for help, for release, for _good_ alpha. Well Gabriel’s a good alpha, so screw this.

“Hey, buddy,” he says gently, angling the blade away. “I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? We’ll keep this real quick, omega, I promise you. Just let me get those things off you and we’ll be golden, yeah?”

Gabriel advances when the kid doesn’t react, slow and steady he slips closer. When the blade touches the fabric, Gabriel can _feel_ (no word of a goddamn lie) the pressure of that _bluegreenbrown_ gaze, the plea in it, and the need. Gabriel winks when he pulls the fabric taut with his fingers and slices neatly through it. He pulls it from the boy’s mouth and flicks the knife to the binding on his wrists, slicing through them just as easily.

He slides the knife out of sight and sits back away again.

“There we go, kiddie-winks,” he smiles again. “Good as new. You wanna divulge your name, or you want me to guess?”

“Where’s my brother?” he demands through taut death-glares.

“Weird name, kid,” Gabriel smirks. “I’m Gabriel. Balthazar, the guy stalking in the doorway. And your brother’s downstairs. With my brother. You wanna get dressed first, then we can head down?”

Sam shrugs and nods, shrinking into himself with a scent tinged in embarrassment, curling his limbs tighter to his body. Gabriel chuckles kindly and scavenges through the pile of clothes to scout out the boy’s—a soft grey jumper, dark jeans and Chelsea boots, no underwear. Gabriel turns as the kid dresses, beckoning for Balthazar to head down now and they’ll catch up in a minute. The man rolls his eyes, but leaves anyway.

“Sam,” comes a small voice, timid. Gabriel turns to watch him tug on the last of the boots. “My name.”

“Sam. Good name,” Gabriel says. “You okay, Sam?”

Sam shrugs.

“Alright, well, we’ll get you to your brother, how ‘bout that? Come along, Sam,” and Gabriel leads the way.

It’s a slow, silent trek back through the house. Sam stumbles a bit to begin with but he soon gets the hang of it. And he still reeks. That eerie, almost but not-quite-familiar mix of fear and blood and slick but sweet, sweet omega fills the hall beside the alpha, a heady mix. Not familiar because this scent, this kid…this is different. This is good. This is…right, just, uh… _different_. Really fucking good.

The other alphas—Cas, Balthazar, Anna—all turn when they get a whiff of the omega and the slick, but they don’t puff up like an alpha smelling a treat, not like Gabriel is now. Not like they want to curl up to this omega in a bathtub and make him smell of Gabriel and love and happiness and home… _Jesus_. Knuckle up Gabe, come on.

“Sammy,” someone croaks, and the boy beside him is swooped up into a rapid hug, tugged tight and hard until the two omega’s stink as one, emitting that litany of _omegafamilyhome_. It’s a good smell. A nice smell.

Gabriel goes to Castiel.

“Good?” Gabriel asks after Castiel’s job.

“Without a hitch.”

“Cool. That’s Sam, by the way.”

Cas nods at the elder boy, “Dean. Brothers. I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, me neither. Poor little fucks. You good, baby brother?”

“Yes, Gabriel, I’m fine. We should head to the hospital soon, we’re missing our opportunity for privacy,” Castiel says, stepping further from Gabriel’s scent, like he doesn’t need the protection the scent of a brother brings, he’s too old for that shit now. Gabriel grins at him and rolls his eyes.

“Eh, Pam’ll wait, kiddo. Give the two a little space, anyhow.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, flustered, eyes like spotlights on Dean, his scent weird. Gabriel sniffs him and smirks. Cas scowls. “What?”

“Dean, huh? Castiel, you dog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Explicit rape, guys. Sammy's tied to a bed and raped. Gabriel swoops in, slits Azazel's throat, freaks Sammy out.  
> Heavily implied sexual abuse of Dean, physical abuse of Dean by Alastair.   
> Graphic depictions of murder - Alastair and Azazel and they freaking deserve it.


	2. Kaleidoscope Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

Sam’s pretty sure if he breathes in any deeper he’ll actually _drown_ in Dean’s angst. He totally gets it; obviously this isn’t exactly their usual Friday night (weirdly better than some they've lived through)—but still. It’s kind of awkward in a car with two other alphas manned with knives and guns and the knowledge of how to slit a man’s throat. Well, Sam doesn’t _know_ if the other dude has that knowledge. He’ll just guess he does.

“We’re in for a long ride, kiddos,” Gabriel says, shifting sideways in his seat to eye them both. “You up for it?”

Gabriel. An alpha. Nice, weirdly—he smells good at least. Actually, now that Sam thinks about it, he smells _fantastic_. Huh. But then again, he just slit a man’s throat and put a bullet in his chest—disregarding the fact that said man was Azazel, which makes it even slightly better—so it’s not exactly a safe thing to think this guy smells fantastic. Sam doesn’t know what he’s capable of doing, to him or his brother. Trust is a thing they haven’t awarded anyone in years.

Dean’s hand grips tighter to his waist and tugs him in closer, angling for Sam’s head to drop to his throat like they always do. Sam goes because he doesn’t have the energy to argue. These guys can think what they want.

 _Omegafamilyhomeomegafamilyhome_ …

“You okay there, kitten?”

Did Gabriel just call him a kitten? That sounded seriously fucked up coming out of an assassin’s mouth…

“He’s fine,” Dean snaps, and Sam eyes him from beneath his bangs, offering a quizzical look that he hopes says _‘let’s not snap at the assassins, shall we?’_ , but Dean pretty much ignores him. Shocker there. “He’s just, uh…” Dean spares him a glance, “tired. He’ll be fine.”

Tired, definitely. Obviously. And yeah, okay, he will be fine and everything, but that’s not just what this is. Because before Azazel even stripped Sam of his clothes earlier, he injected that crap into his neck and massaged his hole until the slick started flowing and Sam started whimpering like…like…a kitten. Huh.  
Ugh, _super_ disturbing.

“Mmm,” Sam hums into Dean’s collarbone. He presses his forehead into his brother’s cool neck (‘cause Dean made sure the window was open, he just _knows_ ) and huffs where he is, fighting the migraine. Dean picks up a hand and plays with the fingers, rubbing them like he used to when they were both just kids and the only thing they had to worry about was getting to bed before Dad came home.

“Not to be, uh, _crass_ or anything, kiddos,” Gabriel says, turning back to watch the world float by the front window, tinted in an inky blue. “But Sam…pretty sure you were slick back there. And I’m guessing that wasn’t exactly a willing response, so…he give you anything? Be cool if you could tell us now.”

Sam blinks up at Dean, cheeks tinted red. Gross, Gabriel smelt his slick. Well, obviously he did, it would be hard not to, but _still_. Gross to bring it up. Sam doesn’t wanna know, and he doesn’t want Dean to either. Or…Cas-something-or-other driving. Sam’s head hurts, okay; he doesn’t have the best memory right now.

Dean offers a smirk, the one that says _‘s’ok, kiddo, not too embarrassing, though I'm still gonna rip you for it later’_ , before turning to glare at the back of Gabriel’s head.

Sam bets he doesn’t know what to say so, with a sigh intended for Gabriel to hear, he answers, “Injec _sh_ on. Dunno what’s in’t,” and hopes that clears shit up.

Apparently not. “He injected you, Sam?” Cas-something says, turning his head slightly from the road to look over at Gabriel.

“Yup,” Sam says. He just said that, didn’t he?

Dean’s hand tightens through his fingers and Sam hisses at him.

“Okay. Thank you for letting us know.” Cas-something is silent for a little longer, before he swallows audibly and asks, “Have the effects worn off? You don’t smell… _aroused_.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Dean apparently takes pity on him then, because he nudges his hand loosely along Sam’s side (mindful of the bruise he knows is still healing just above Sam’s bottom rib) and blows a breath over Sam’s hair. He likes doing that.

“Just the after effects now,” Dean supplies, his words as mashed as his lips on Sam’s crown. “That’s why he sounds drunk…he just needs to sleep ‘em off for a while.”

“Well, feel free,” Gabriel says, turning to wink at Sam.

“S’cool,” Dean says when Sam pins a hopeful look at him, “Get some sleep, Sammy. I got you.”

Sam knows that. So he does.

*

The next time Sam’s eyes open ( _ow_ ) the sun is rising in the sky and filling the car with oranges and yellows and reds and Nevada warmth and Dean’s trembling…wait.

_What?_

Dean’s trembling. Gabriel’s looking round at them both from his side of the car and Sam’s pretty sure Cas would be, too, if he didn’t have to busy himself with driving, Dean’s locked around Sam’s body like a vice, and…he’s trembling. And Sam still hurts like hell. The car reeks of the tarmac outside and the fresh air through their open window, alpha scent (Sam ignores everything they’re feeling, he doesn’t care), and Dean’s sudden, cutthroat fear. Shit.

“Dean?” Sam whispers frantically, crawling closer and hauling a leg beneath him to sit higher, to peer closer to his big brother. He strokes a hand at Dean’s shoulder and urges him to spill, to admit to Sam that they’re being driven to a breeding farm or something, to be separated and raped every day for the rest of their lives… “ _Deanwhatthehell_?”

“Hey, no, Sammy, don’t do that, baby, s’ok, just don’t get worked up, alright? Calm down, little brother, s’ok, calm down, Sammy, I got you…”

Calm down, sure right, Sam’s gonna calm down when he’s about to be hauled from his brother and shoved in a cell and die full of alpha come like Azazel had said, oh God, why the hell did they get in the goddamn car, they should have just waited for the police—

Dean has to scramble to keep them from falling sideways when Cas swings the car over and parks harshly on the side of a baron, desert-like road. Sam buries his head in Dean’s throat and holds on. _No_. He won’t fucking leave him.

“Calm down, both of you,” Cas says, rough voice gentle and _lying_ … “We aren’t going to hurt you, alright? Just calm down, please.”

“Fuck you,” Dean growls, and Sam sobs into his shirt collar, “we’re not going to any kinda _hospital_ , you hear me? _Screw_ you.”

Hospital? Oh, no…

Maybe if Sam just closes his eyes and pants into his brother’s skin this will all just go away and they can drive back to Alastair’s and at least only ever get a visit from the doctor if they’re _real_ bad…

No. These two alphas—the ones that want to take them to a hospital with hundreds of doctors—they _killed_ Alastair. And now Sam and Dean are stuck with them. Maybe they could go to Dad now they’re out of the house; maybe they could make a run for it…

“Hey, come on, kiddos,” Gabriel says, Sam crawls until his legs a laced with Dean’s and his chest is spread over his brothers. “We haven’t got a choice here. You both need checking out and they ain’t gonna prod you with anything unless you ask real nice…” he stops short at Dean’s rumbled out growl. “All I’m saying here Dean, is…you wanna look out for your brother, I get that, okay, I’m one myself. And right now, Sam’s not in tip-top shape, to say the least. And if we can figure out what that bastard gave him, we can figure out how to treat it. Okay? No-one’s getting hurt here for anything, I promise you that. I _promise_.”

Yeah, Sam remembers promises. Dad promised before Mom died that he loved them, and look how that turned out. Alastair promised Dad his boys would have a safe home to grow up in, and hey, look at them now. Promises mean shit. Sam and Dean get that.

“He’s gotten past it before, every time,” Dean says numbly and Sam presses closer. “He…he sleeps it off and then he’s fine. He’ll be fine.”

“We need knowledge on the long term effects, Dean. Putting anything into your bloodstream for an extended amount of time is bound to have consequences,” Castiel turns fully to look at them, Sam can _feel_ his gaze. “We’ll go slow. The people at the clinic are trained to deal with omegas in similar positions to yours; they understand what you’re going through and what you’ve been through—”

“No-one knows what we’ve been through,” Dean hisses and his hand finds Sam’s hair, shoving his face closer to Dean’s throat and keeping it there, ordering Sam to scent him and not think, to not worry like he always does if Alastair leaves them to lick at each other’s wounds. “You’re _alphas_. Screw you.”

Castiel sighs.

“You know what, you’re right,” Gabriel hastily picks up the slack. “We ain’t got a clue ourselves, but believe it or not, we have done this before. And yeah, I get it, it’s a big pile of crap for the first few days without that normality you lived with for however long, but it gets easier. We’ve seen it happen, okay? Kids torn and bloody inside and out are smiling next time we see ‘em. ‘Cause they know they’re _safe_. _You’re safe_ , you hear me? We’re gonna make sure nothing like that ever happens to you again. But we need you healthy, too. So we gotta get you to the clinic and have you checked out before we go anywhere else, okay? We’ll be there the whole way, I swear.”

The doctor that Alastair calls for them, when he says they’ve been too bad and they need to be punished, is the same guy who laid them out on the table that first week of deliriousness and carved into their holes with a scalpel. Sam’s pretty sure he’s not really a doctor, just a guy with a really messed up kink, as Dean would call it, because he’s usually the one that gets those. He always smiles when Sam screams beneath his knife, or when Dean passed out from that electric shock thing he threaded into Dean’s hole that one time. Alastair hadn’t liked that. Sam hadn’t gotten to see his brother for a whole week, and by the time he did…it wasn’t good. Dean doesn’t remember it and Sam’s grateful.

“Dean…” Sam mewls, burrowing closer. “M’head,” he says. “And he _hurt_ you. Hurt you with shocks and Al’stair took you away from me, Dean, please don’t…don’t leave ‘gain, ‘kay? Need big brother. Won’t let the doc-tor hurt you…again.” And Sam smiles because sometimes, just sometimes, Dean needs looking after too. Sam’s just rubbish at doing it.

But Dean doesn’t look comforted or calm. Dean’s scent escalates bitterly and his lips curl lower even when Sam ducks in and nuzzles at them, he still smells sad. Worried. Sam frowns and huffs, confused, lifting up with a crumbling face because Dean is still worried even though Sam said he’d look after him…

Dean pulls him back to his collarbone with a smile, and Sam goes with a relieved mewl.

“Shh, Sammy, we’re okay. I’m not going anywhere, baby, okay? I got you.”

“Not a baby.” He always does.

Sam drifts as Dean says, “Okay. But if you _fucking_ hurt him, I _swear to God_ …” but Sam doesn’t catch the rest. He just breaths in his brother and leaves it at that.

**-Ω----D----Ω-**

Castiel says Dean doesn’t have to wake Sam up if it’s going to hurt him, that he or Gabriel can carry him inside—but fuck if Dean’s gonna let them lay one measly finger on his baby brother. Dean wakes him up, but with that pained little chipper, he thinks he’s gonna regret it. Dean ends up basically carrying him anyway. He says his legs _‘don’t wanna work prop’ly’_ and looks like he’s about to panic over it, so Dean just lays a peck to his trembling lips and promises he’ll take care of it. Kid just looks up at him like he hung the moon and drapes his body over Dean. He helps as much as he can.

They were right when they said the hospital was a clinic. It’s a wide, one-story type building, but it looks new—glass fronts and a winding driveway that drops them off right at the door, a posh looking glass patio roof that makes it look like a place Dad could never have afforded back when they were with him. It sets Dean on edge. _‘Sigma Health Clinic’_ with a giant Σ drilled onto the side. Dean gulps up at it and strokes a thumb over the stretch of his brother’s ribs.

Gabriel’s gone to park the car somewhere, says he’ll meet them inside, so Dean’s left trailing his brother a few paces behind Castiel.

Everyone glances over when they walk in—a few people sat in what looks like a waiting room, a couple employees. To be fair, they must reek of apprehension and Sammy doesn’t exactly look with it right now (and it’s not as if Dean looks much better)—but still. It’s not a brilliant feeling. And if he walks a little closer to Castiel for it, then what the hell ever.

They stop at what looks like a desk and Castiel leans over to talk politely to a grinning beta named ‘Becky’.

“Mr Novak,” she says brightly, Dean flinches. “Dr Barnes, I presume? Ah, these must be the omegas from Nevada, right?” She turns that grin on Dean, then Sammy, and Dean holds in a growl. “Well, hey there,” she says, holding out a hand, “I’m Becky; it’s just _awesome_ to make your acquaintance.”

Dean just stares at her hand passively and totally does _not_ step behind Castiel. He _doesn’t_.

“It’s been a long drive, Becky; you’ll have to excuse us. I’ll just take them round to Pamela’s waiting room—when Gabriel comes in, will you tell him where we are?” Becky nods eagerly with an _“uh-huh”_ , so Castiel smiles and motions for Dean to walk on.

He chuckles at Dean’s glare.

“She means well. I think she’s relatively new at the desk job and Bobby’s a bit reluctant to tell her to tone it down. Through here, Dean.”

Dean leads them—with Castiel’s directions—through another door and into the next waiting room that should look and feel terrifyingly clinical but weirdly doesn’t. It smells good—no alpha scent and Dean can’t even smell Castiel much anymore, so there must be ventilators hidden somewhere in the walls. Accented a soft blue with fish murals on the wall and soft chairs dotted about the room in rows. It’s surprisingly big, but Castiel navigates them towards the centre, right underneath a sort of dome shape thing on the ceiling that depicts constellations of stars. Sam looks straight up there and purrs. Dean’s pretty sure Cas did that on purpose.

“It’s a nice distraction,” Castiel says, smiling wistfully at Sam from where he sits opposite them, a safe distance away. Dean strokes his brother’s hair away from his face to give him a better view. Sam grins.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

Gabriel arrives then, officially making the number of people in the room a whopping four. Dean wonders why it’s so empty compared to the throngs of people in the other one. He doesn’t think he likes it.

“This is the Omega Block,” Castiel explains once Gabriel’s sat safely beside him. “This is where omega’s come in similar situations to you. It’s a little early for any others right now, which is why we were in a bit of a rush to get here. We thought privacy might be nicer and Pamela doesn’t have to be in a hurry. Is that okay?”

Dean looks up at that. Is that… _okay_? Like Dean has any kind of choice, sat here like they are. He just nods.

“Good,” Castiel smiles at him. “As soon as we get you back to the facility, you’re free to rest. I’d imagine your exhausted…”

Dean lowers down in his seat and _growls_. Facility? They said fuck all about a _facility_ , and Sammy is not going anywhere near it, screw them thinking they can trick Dean just ‘cause he’s not in top shape right now and putting him in a room made for kids just ‘cause he’s an omega even if it does smell good and make him more relaxed, it’s a _ploy_ …

“Hey, whoa there, cowboy,” Gabriel says, holding out his palms like Dean is some kind of wild animal he needs to _tame_. “You’re okay, buddy, calm down.”

“What _facility_?” Dean hisses, holding his brother back against the chair. Sam looks up at him widely, eyes darting and confused. Shit. He probably can’t even scent Dean in this fucking room. Dean presses his lips to Sam’s mussed up hair and eyes the alphas over the top. Fucking _shit_. They should have just stayed in the goddamn house.

“They’ll be other omegas, Dean,” Castiel says, leaning forward in his chair. “Omega’s that have been sat here just like you are now, that have been just as scared as you are right now. It’s _safe_ there, Dean, both of you will be safe, I swear to you. No-one’s allowed to harm you there, it’s okay. It’s alright, Dean, calm down, please—”

“Dean?” Sam mewls. “S’goin’ on?”

“Nothing, baby, it’s okay. Shh, Sam, we’re fine.”

Are they?

Right, ‘cause they haven’t been fine since mom died, does Dean really think it’s all just gonna start now? They both just watched their alphas murdered in their own home and now they’re being hauled off to this facility shit-fest straight after a trip to the doctor’s…Dean doesn’t know what to think. More importantly, he doesn’t know what to _do_. Fuck.

So he just holds onto his baby brother and keeps his eyes on Sam’s knees. If anyone comes after him, he’ll kill them. Great. Done.

“Dean?” Castiel says. Dean ignores him. The alpha sighs and that familiar twang of nausea rears its head that he just disappointed an alpha. Well screw that. No one’s hurting Sammy, never again. “You _are_ fine, Dean. I promise.”

Dean scoffs and keeps his eyes away, nuzzling his face into Sam’s scalp. Of course they’re fine. Why wouldn’t they be fine? Son of a _bitch_ …

“Well, would you look what the cat dragged in,” comes a voice, female, Dean can’t scent her. Huh. He’s beginning to seriously hate that certain feature. He glances up to assess the threat and his gaze lands on slightly-younger-than-middle-age woman, long dark hair and bright eyes. She’s smiling over at them all from a door leading into what looks like a treatment room…oh god. “What, the liquor store closed?”

Castiel glances tentatively at Dean with a slightly regretful little smile, before standing up and nodding his head to beckon at them. Dean doesn’t move.

“’fraid so,” Gabriel replies, grinning. “You got any stashed back there?”

“Sure, what d’you fancy, short stack? Gotta watermelon martini with your name on it.” She’s wearing a white coat, that means she’s a doctor, right?

“Ugh, a martini?” Gabriel grouches, still grinning. “Gross, woman, who the hell taught you to drink?”

And then she’s laughing. Dean just keeps snarling silently at Castiel who apparently still hasn’t gotten the hint that they’re not moving anywhere.

“So,” Doctor-lady says, clapping her hands. Sam jumps practically out of his seat, shoving instantly forward to mewl desperately into Dean’s neck and Dean goes to snarling up at her. He shushes Sam gently, stroking him with one hand. Oh god, Dean doesn’t wanna do this. If Sam had just gotten a little more sleep in the car he wouldn’t be some dopey puppy practically crawled onto Dean’s lap and then Dean could actually have some back-up in this crap-fest situation. Dean’s fault though, he shouldn’t have been so open with his fear. That’s always Dean’s problem in the end though, isn’t it?

“You gonna introduce me?” she says, raising her eyebrows at Gabriel.

Gabriel winks at her and turns to them. “Boys, this is Dr Pamela Barnes. Pam, meet Sam and Dean.”

“Howdy, handsomes,” she grins at them and Dean looks away. “You wanna come have a chat with me in here?” Dean growls low in his throat. “No? That’s okay too. Haven’t got another client ‘til two anyway, so we got time.”

She walks over and sits next to Castiel, who’s returned to his seat to apparently stare at them until they do a trick. Gabriel perches on an armrest on Castiel’s row of chairs and smiles at them. Dean huffs against his brother’s hair and Sam just breathes gently at Dean’s neck. One giant room of _awesome_.

“So, boys. How you holding up?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Dean bites out, clutching Sam closer. “Fucking _peachy_.”

Pamela chuckles. “Yeah, I can see that. Not a big fan of doctors, huh? Mind if I ask why?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Yeah, actually, he fucking does. “You can ask.”

She smiles at that and nods. “Okay, I get it. You’re…Dean?” Dean looks away. “Alright, well, Dean…I’m not like them, okay? Whatever experience you’ve had…s’not me. I promise you.”

“Promises don’t mean shit,” he mutters loosely, not letting it taint his scent. Sam scuffles his nose under Dean’s collar.

“They do if they’re kept. You gonna let me give that a go?”

Dean glares up at her. It’s not exactly his decision if she decides to screw them over, is it? If it _is_ , then he’s been a fucking idiot all these years.

He shrugs instead.

“We can talk as long as you want, Dean—you look like the kinda guy I could get along with—but that’s not really why either of us are here, is it? I wanna make sure you’re doing okay. I wanna make sure whatever’s swimming around Sam’s bloodstream isn’t gonna hurt him in the long run. Just a couple of tests, okay? You don’t like one?” She cross her hands in front of her, “we scrap it. Not a problem. Sure, I’ll try and convince you otherwise, but if you still don’t wanna give it a go—that’s fine. So,” she smiles and ducks her head for Sam’s attention. He doesn’t give it to her. “We good?”

Dean glances slowly back at the room Pamela strategically left the door open to. It looks like the cleanest torture chamber Dean’s ever seen, but he gets that that’s not fair. Honestly, it looks like every other doctor’s office he ever step foot in before Alastair. And doctors weren’t _always_ evil. Some apparently couldn’t give a shit either way whether Dean could give birth or not, they just treated him as any normal teenage little brat. But things are different now. Now, they’re here _because_ they’re omegas—because they’ve been abused as them. And now Dean knows what doctors can do if they’re not the good kind and, like Sammy slurred, they hurt. Really fucking bad and Dean doesn’t want Sam going through shit like that ever again. He’d scope it out himself if he could, but that means leaving Sammy out here by himself and that ain’t about to happen.

Dean glances at the two men he knows as alphas. He nods at them, “They coming in?”

Pamela pats Cas on the back, “Entirely up to you.”

Dean nods slowly, thinking. At least he knows them, right? And they haven’t hurt Sam so far—if they were going to, why wouldn’t they have gotten it over and done with already? Better than trusting a total stranger that may or may not be an alpha.

Dean looks at Cas and hopes his meaning is portrayed.

Castiel smiles. “We can come in if you want,” Dean nods. “Okay. That’s good, Dean, not a problem. Are you alright?” he asks, motioning to them as Dean begins to haul Sam into standing, coaxing him with smiles.

“Fine,” he says. Then to Sam, “Come on, Sammy, we’re moving again,” Sam whines high in his throat and trips slightly, landing fully against Dean. He huffs an irritated little clip and peers up at his brother, eyes wide. “Dude, come on. I got you, Sammy, we’re good.”

It takes about five minutes just to get into the goddamn room. Sam keeps trying to help but that ends with them both tripping slightly with Cas’s hand a support against Dean’s back (he shrugs that off quickly) until in the end, Dean just hauls his kid up around his waist and carries him in.

Pamela motions to a clean, uncomfortable looking bed off to the right and Dean goes to sit on it, keeping Sam a secure weight straddling his lap. He slumps against Dean’s chest and melts there, breathing heavily.

Pamela smiles as she sits in her ‘important doctor chair’ and Dean glances over at Cas and Gabriel perching on one of the cabinets. They both smile encouragingly and Gabriel winks.

“Alrighty then. First job: how old are you guys?” Pamela gets out a clipboard and watches him lightly, pen poised over the paper.

“M’twenty. Sammy’s sixteen,” Dean says.

“Okay, cool,” she says absently, filling two sheets of paper in with their ages, one right under the other. She looks up again and smiles. “Now, do either of you have any prolonged illnesses, such as diabetes or…celiac disease?” Dean shakes his head. “Asthma, any trouble breathing?” Another shake. “Okay, great,” she smiles back up at them and scratches one last word across one page without even looking. Dean just watches her like a goddamn hawk and makes sure she knows it. “Is it cool if I ask when your first heats were? When you matured into omegas, I mean.”

Great. Just fucking great, isn’t it, this couldn’t be going better. Fuck this life.

Dean snarls under his breath before answering quickly. “I was fourteen, I guess.” He glances down at the snuffling little kid curled around his torso and frowns, a shiver running the course of his spine as that familiar sense of _you-useless-big-brother-look-at-what-you-couldn’t-stop_ curls through his body. He gulps and lets his eyes drift back up to Dr Pamela, suddenly fucking _exhausted_.

She smiles up at him and, boy, does that not help. “What about Sam?”

“He was…” fuck, what’s the point of having a big brother when he does fuck all? “He was ten. When he presented, but…”

Shit.

“It’s cool, Dean, go on,” she nudges.

“He’s never been in heat. They, uh, they got to him before that. With the drugs, I mean.” Dean picks at a loose thread at the hem of his brothers jumper, letting his fingers be warm points at the base of his spine, right there, right where Sam loves them. He mewls and shuffles over Dean’s lap. “I dunno, I guess, they just screwed with his system, I…I guess,” he finishes lamely. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see their judgement; he knows he should have done more, okay? He doesn’t need it painted on strangers faces in the useless form of pity or kindness. Useless either way, right?

“Ah,” Pamela says, but the way she says it has Dean’s gaze right back to her in a heartbeat, his own thundering quickly inside his chest. Sam chippers in agitation into his clavicle, but Dean ignores it outside of laying his palm flat against his brother’s back.

“What?” he snaps, just catching the side-eye she grants the alphas and the knowing, raised brow look they supply back. “ _What?_ ”

“It’s okay,” she soothes (fuck her, he’s not some wild animal), holding out one hand with the pen still wound in her fingers. “It’s fine, Dean, honestly. All I meant was that we’ve heard of this… _situation_ before. Only a year or so ago, an omega around the same age as your brother was admitted here for a short period of time and she also had never experienced a heat. Once she started talking to us, it came to light that her alpha used to drug her, too. It’s very treatable. In fact, it doesn’t really need to be treated—all we ask is Sam getting some good, solid sleep in and rest for a couple weeks, minimum, and he’ll be right as rain. I expect you right there beside him,” she winks, as though…jeese, Dean doesn’t know. “Have you ever experienced the drug, Dean?”

Dean shakes his head, but he’s not watching the doctor. He’s frowning down at Sammy’s wide, blinking face and wondering what sick bastard could ever dream about harming him like he has been. Dean can see the scars. Alastair was never a big fan of marring their faces but hey, collateral damage, right? Poor goddamn kid…

“Well, basically,” Pamela says, earning herself Dean’s distracted gaze, “what these drugs do is send the omega back to resorting to natural, _base_ instincts. Factory settings, if you will. The omega is docile and compliant under the drugs—is their natural instinct…or, well, their archaic instinct. They’re illegal, obviously. And I’m guessing your alpha only ever used them when he was… _with_ Sam,” she makes a specific hand gesture and Dean nods. She smiles with a raised brow, “Yeah. But he’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Okay,” Dean mutters, but only because he’s seen how the drug works. Sammy’s all loopy when he comes back down, only ever crying if Alastair’s there and he can scent the alpha and if the pain is just that bad he can’t keep it all in. Alone, Dean can usually keep the tears at bay. He’s as right as he ever is come morning.

“Good. Now, uh,” Pamela says, and Dean glances back up, his eyes flitting minutely to the two alphas still watching them, eithers gaze diverted between omegas. Dean frowns shortly at them before turning back to the doctor. “Can I ask—when you were with them…how often did they use you? Sexually, I mean.”  
Dean flushes, he can fucking feel it. He doesn’t wanna say. It’s humiliating, okay, that he couldn’t stop it and he let his brother get abused so many goddamn times. But…Dean knows what ‘get checked out means’. He knows Sam needs to be safe beyond anything else and sure, safety would be a family out in the suburbs with parents that give a shit, but they’re here now.

So he knuckles up and tilts his chin to the ceiling before saying loosely, “Dunno. Once a day, sometimes twice, I guess. But he was away a lot on business, so…”

She nods and scribbles more crap down on paper. “How long have you been with him? I’m assuming you weren’t related.”

“No,” Dean growls instantly, placing his hand on the back of Sam’s head before he can look up questioningly at Dean. “We weren’t… _related_. Couple years.” Five. Five years.

“Dean…d’you know where your family is?”

“Fuck you,” Dean growls and hunches lower, tugging Sammy backwards. “We don’t have a family, _fuck you_. We’re done talking.”

“Okay,” Pamela says quickly, raising her two hands again and Dean snarls at her to lower the placating gesture. _Stop fucking treating us liked caged animals_. “That’s fine; you’re calling the shots here, whatever you say, kiddo.”

Dean lowers his wall of _back the hell away_ because Sam starts fidgeting under his hands and there’s a tell-tale wetness beginning to form at Dean’s shoulder seam. He hushes the kid and strokes a palm through his hair. Needs a trim. Gonna start getting in his eyes again and it’s gonna piss him off…

“You remember those tests we were talking about, Dean-o?” Pamela asks, lowering the clipboard and pen to the desk behind her and clasping her hands together on her knee. “You reckon you’re up for them?” She rests her gaze pointedly on Sam.

“What are they?” Dean asks, eyeing her wearily.

She smiles again. “For right now, real basic. I just wanna check you over for abnormalities—cuts, lesions, marks, anything like that. Blood tests if you’ll let me. Just to make sure there’s nothing weird swimming around in there. Won’t take longer than…five minutes each?” she looks over at the alphas who both nod before turning back to them and nodding herself, “five minutes. Fifteen tops, then you can head back to the car and get the hell outta dodge, okay?”

Jesus. Dean wishes—beyond anything right about now—that this wasn’t happening. He’d take a night of Alastair’s jibs and the odd blowjob (no matter how much his jaw screamed at him after he took that whole goddamn knot) any day to be away from this shit hole at this precise moment. Because at the very least Alastair forced him back there, but now…now this Pamela doctor chick is giving him the decision to make and Dean doesn’t ever think he’s needed for Sam to be coherent more in his whole life—

“’kay,” Dean offers after a second because he’s here, right? If she tries anything, Dean’ll kill her, and if she really does just want to check them over, he should let her, right? _Shit_. He sighs. “Okay.”

“Alright. That’s great, Dean, you’re doing awesome. We wanna try Sam first?”

Dean nods.

“Perfect. You wanna get him standing for me? It’s okay, kiddo; I won’t even have to touch him if there’s nothing to worry about.”

Sam mewls and keens from a spot right at the back of his throat when Dean lifts him to standing again, turning his fingers from little kitten paws to freaking claws when he attaches himself to Dean, holding on and gripping for dear life. Dean lets him, of course. He needs safety right now, security. That’s Dean.

“De’n,” he hiccups, nuzzling closer the second an inch forms between them. Dean just holds him steady and pulls his head to his neck again.

“S’ok, Sammy, I’m here, buddy,” he says. He peers over one fluffy head to eye Pamela expectantly and she stands, remaining a close enough distance away that Dean manages not to flinch.

“Anything you wanna point out to me, Dean?” she asks, leaning back against the cabinet like Castiel and Gabriel still stand. “Anything you’ve noticed bothering him?”

Dean thinks for a second with his eyes fixed on his brother’s head.

“His ribs. He bruised ‘em a couple days back, still can’t let anyone touch them.”

Pamela nods slowly and knowingly. “Can I see them?” Dean freezes, but she soothes with, “S’cool, kiddo, I’ll stay way over here and you just lift his jumper up for me.”

Dean’s hesitant, but he does it anyway. Sure, it takes a decent bit of manoeuvring and quiet coaxing on his part for Sammy to go anywhere, but after a few decidedly worrying attempts, Dean gets Sam between his legs where he’s sat—almost perched on one thigh, nose buried in his throat and turned towards the doctor with Dean’s hand holding his jumper hem up and stroking him softly all the while. He’s purring by the time Dean gets him comfortable, so he counts that as a steady win.

Pamela whistles under her breath but she doesn’t make any kind of move forward which Dean is at least grateful for. He senses Gabriel ( _or maybe Castiel? He doesn’t look_ ) shift in the corner of his eye and straighten, but neither of them advance either. Dean lowers his jumper once they’ve had their ogle but doesn’t tuck Sam close again. He waits.

“Yeah, they’re bruised, alright,” Pamela says in an unamused chuckle. “But I don’t think they’re broken. Next time you’re here, I’d like to do an x-ray, though, if that’s alright? Make sure everything’s where it should be. Anything else?”

A few things—Dean shows them to her in a quick succession, moving from the bite-mark-but-not-mating-bite floating just below Sam’s collarbone that still hasn’t healed after three weeks; to the burn scar on his hip that never got checked out (obviously), but still gives Sam trouble sometimes; belt welts marking his back up like whip marks. Pamela hums at each and every one, scribbles some crap down on her paper and nods at them both.

Dean ignores the alphas for the most part, but he’s almost a hundred per cent sure they don’t ignore him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Sam's drugged with hormone enhancers that make him slick. The boys are scared shitless of Dr Pam.


	3. Yes, I am Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

Yeah, he sure smells like factory settings. Blissful, commercial worthy OMEGA is what he smells like: the slick long since dispersed over the last twelve hours but that base sweetness’s gone nowhere, still floats in the air like some freshly baked cheesecake just pulled out of the oven and holy crap it’s not fair.

He smells like perfection.

He smells like Gabriel’s.

 _He smells like_ mine.

Christ man, not now. Jesus.

Not ever actually, let’s be perfectly, sickeningly reasonable here. He’s just watched the kid mewl like a lost little kitten into his brother’s throat for the hundredth time, purr at the sensations ( _holy crap, by the way_ ) of his brother’s warm hands smoothing over his ribs ( _bruised, Gabe, so fucking bruised_ ) and all but freaking shit himself when he noticed Gabriel’s eyes boring into his hipbone at the mark there, a scar that Gabriel’s pretty sure was third degree. He’s messed up in more ways than one and the last thing he needs is another needy alpha on his radar. It’s the last thing either of them need, the poor little fucks.

If only Sam was a few years older—an activist, maybe, tall and broad for the meagre thing he is, then they might actually be able to get somewhere…though then again, if Gabriel’s wishing for a change in age, he wouldn’t mind a few of his own years lopped off.

Anything would be better than this mess of a child he seems to have found himself and stuck to—this ‘archaic-instinct’ creature that smells like twizzlers and candy-canes and everything perfect and good. Typical. Gabriel’s tastes have always been fucking dumb, if Kali’s anything to go by.

“That’s perfect, Dean, thank you,” Pam says, smiling over at the older boy—just now starting to show exhaustion in the form of minute trembling and Gabriel can _feel_ Castiel’s unease. Brothers for brothers, eh? Cas’ tastes haven’t been much better than his in recent years, so why not?

Dean lowers his sleeve over the few-inch scar that Jo apparently had to stitch up for him a few months back because it wouldn’t stop staining blood everywhere. He nods his discomfort at the doctor and settles himself back to the bed, tugging Perfect Sammy as his safety guard to his chest. The kid just keens softly at Dean’s collarbone and rolls his nose there, getting settled again, perched over his brother’s lap. Gabriel could help. He could carry him if they wanted, scent him, give him alpha to sate that need he just knows is coursing his kids’ veins…

_Okay one: not your kid. Two: there is no way in this side of hell Dean’s letting you anywhere near the little fuzz-ball, and no, he’s not gonna listen to your reasons—‘because he smells like mine’ shouldn’t even be a consideration, you idiot._

Dammit, Gabe, get a fucking grip.

So instead of knotting his-not-his kid seven ways from Sunday, Gabriel settles himself begrudgingly against the counter at his ass, resting ( _clamping_ ) his hands against the work surface and sucking in a petty little scowl. He sucks in a breath and lets that out like a balm, shoving his thoughts as far away as his alpha will let them go and reasoning with his inner beast that this kid _isn’t_ his. He’ll protect him, sure, but in an hour or so, he’ll probably never even get to lay eyes on that precious mop of hair again. Besides, it’s obviously just the drugs, this lure. Obviously.

“Anything else, Dean?” Pam asks.

Dean shakes his head and apparently sucks in a weary breath of his own, breathing in his brother’s scent as much as he can in the ventilated room. _Notfairnotfairnotfair…_

“You sure, kiddo? I can help, you know, if you’re in pain. We have things that can take that away here.”

Another sigh, “Yeah, I know. But do you really think I’m gonna be takin’ any kind of drugs from you?”

Gabriel chuckles with Pam at that and nods consideringly at a dreary faced Dean, who just keeps glaring at the floor like it’s personally offended him, tugging Beautiful Sam closer to his scared up chest.

“Nah, I guess not,” Pamela smiles. “But maybe once you’ve settled in away from that shit I can hook you up, huh?” Dean shrugs. “Well, okay. So how ‘bout those blood tests, kiddo? Nothing’s going into you ‘cept for the needle, you can check. In fact, I insist on it.”

Dean looks warily over at her with those emerald eyes squinted in a blatant— _not_ intimidating, Gabriel’s an alpha, come on—display of pure distrust. Yeah okay, he can appreciate that.

“Dean…I get this isn’t exactly a redeeming part of this whole crap-fest and I know you’re not gonna be exactly _willing_ —especially not with your brother—but this is probably the most important part of right now. I need you to let me do this, alright?” Pam reasons.

The boy—the older one with the alpha complex a universe wide and needy little eyes that keep flicking to Castiel like he might just save them again—shifts on the plastic sheeting, flicking his gaze from Sammy to Pam and back again, his thoughts all but a visible cloud of crap and mistrust floating the outskirts of his head. Obviously he isn’t eager to have a stranger stick him with things—obviously he’s not eager to have that happen to his baby brother either…but Gabriel can tell that’s not the conflicting emotion here. He needs his kid brother safe and that’s the main thing, the most important thing. He needs to know Sam’s not sick or infected or ill in any kind of way and if there’s anything Gabriel can understand, that’s it. And he sure as hell respects Dean for that.

He would say as much but he’s learnt by now that Pamela’s very likely to stick Gabriel with something (and totally not in the kinky way) if he interrupts her little doctor spiel of crap that gets the omega’s purring like little damsel’s in distress just begging to be rescued. And if the looks Sam keeps shooting him (wide-eyed and _perfect_ , ugh) from across Dean’s shoulder are anything to go by, he’s better off staying stumped.

“This is probably the part when I’m gonna have to convince you, huh?” Pam says smoothly and there it is, her carefully conducted speech. Hell, she’s done it enough times. “To put it blandly, kiddo, I’m guessing your alpha’s didn’t exactly use protection, right?” Oh, God. Dean flinches but stays silent which is as loud a yes as any omega has given her yet. “Yeah. Bastards, right? We need to know what’s going on in there for us to treat it, and this is the easiest way right now. ‘Less you wanna go pee in a bottle, but I’m guessing Sam’s not all too cognizant to carry out that plan.” She smiles softly. “Two minutes each. Promise.”

It takes him a few seconds, but, bully to the kid, he does actually nod. Gabriel wants to freaking cheer.

“Great, Dean, I’m pleased you agree. You want the munchkin to go first?”

The omega shakes his head at that suggestion—tucks himself in a neat little pile next to his brother and inhales the sweet little scent. Jealous. So goddamn jealous.

“No,” he says stubbornly, chiselled chin in the air. “I’ll go first.”

Dean puts Sam down next to him on the bed when Pamela asks, just so she can easily get to his right arm and he soothes the little one, whispering mutters into his ear beneath that fluff of hair, still seriously mussed from that fucking _gag_ Azazel had on him—and he strokes a hand along one slender little side. Sam, for his part, simply accommodates. Poor little thing. Looks like he could do with a months’ worth of snoozing and Gabriel’s bed is completely free for the taking—

_Shut up!_

“Just grab a hold of this for me,” Pamela says, handing Dean the strip of gauze. “Yep, great, I’ll just tie this round your arm and we’ll…be…golden,” she says distractedly, tying the band high on Dean’s shirt where it’s rucked up for the needle—she wipes the patch over with disinfectant and holds up the butterfly needle for the kid to inspect. He doesn’t really bother outside of his tired eyes tracing it, looping down to the syringe at the end and back up to the still coated needle. He nods up at her. “Cool. You ready for it?”

Dean nods at just about the exact second Sam seems to notice the needle rested ominously beside his brother and those eyes widen at the sight, tugging Dean’s arm away, urging them all to—“Stop it! De’n, what—”

“Hey, baby, shh, s’okay Sammy, nothing’s going in me, see?” He points at the currently empty syringe. “It’s cool, kiddo, just taking some blood, not a big deal, right?”

Sam just keeps staring. “Bu’…s’needle. Sh-shouldn’…toutche with injecshon. Please, Dean.”

“Hey, hey, buddy,” Dean offers, lifting his lips in an unconvincing smile. “It’s cool, okay? Do I look worried to you, huh?” Probably smells it though. Lucky for the freaking ventilation. “I’m fine Sam, just a pinch, right?” He peers up at Pam who nods eagerly, smiling down at Sam.

“Just a pinch. Nothing to worry about.”

The kid relents, though Gabriel’s pretty sure it’s only ‘cause he’s too knackered to bother fighting it. Gabe’s pretty reluctant for the next few minutes when the same has to happen to him.

Dean doesn’t so much as flinch when the needle pushes into him, just keeps on stroking Sam despite Pam’s warning to stay still, murmuring loosely into his hair. Perfect little angels. Totally unfair. Pam wraps it efficiently in the blue gauze she had Dean grip before throwing the rest of the crap in the orange bin beside her and turning to Sam.

Here we go.

“No.” Perfect. Awesome. “I don’…please, Dean. Please don’ let her do it, please…”

Jesus fucking Christ on a seeded fucking cracker. Shit he’s not gonna able to stay out when the kid starts squirming and he’s gonna fuck him up with his deadly alpha scent because he’ll be close and holding, _shitshitshit, get a grip!_

The elastic’s round his arm and the gauze is in his hand, the needle inches away when he kicks up the fuss. Dean tucks him close and presses his lips against one flushed ear.

“Sammy, come on, buddy, please,” the kid drops the gauze (throws it to the floor and starts _sobbing_ ) before he wraps his arms around his brother. “They need to do it. It’s not gonna hurt, kiddo, I promise, okay? It’s not gonna do anything to you, I swear, shh, just calm down, baby, calm down.”

Oh, God.

The boy hiccups and Gabriel’s pretty sure there’s some divine intervention shit going on here because when those scrunched little hazel eyes peer up at him he doesn’t so much as flinch. Definitely a miracle.

“Please,” yep, no, he’s looking at Gabriel. “Please, okay? Jus’…jus’ don’. A-alpha, righ’?” Sam nods his head determinedly at him and widens his eyes. “Please. Can’ hurt more righ’ now, later, ‘kay? Jus’ later an’ I’ll be real good for you, promise. _Please_.”

“Sam.” Oh, God kiddo, don’t do this. “I’m not gonna hurt—”

“Don’t,” Dean snaps and Gabriel shuts up, teeth clicking. He turns harshly back to his brother. “They’re not touching you for a second, okay? I won’t let them Sammy…hey look at me. Okay? No-one’s hurting you like that ever again, you fucking hearing me? Baby. Hush, Sammy, come on. She just needs to do this. You trust me, right? Well I’m right here and I’m gonna take care of you. The second this is done you can go back to sleep, okay? We can get out of here.”

“Home?” Sam gapes, frowning up in confusion. “Dad?”

Dean’s face crumbles like the goddamn twin towers and he hides it in his brother’s hairline. “Sure, Sam. You gonna do this for me?”

The boy nods and Dean motions for Pam to just hurry the fuck up. She complies.

Gabriel gulps as the needle pierces his kid’s skin, drawing out a puckered little mewl against Dean’s jawline and Pamela has to hold his wrist still or risk more pain. She takes two vials but Gabriel doesn’t think either of them notice.

Sam hugs Dean like he’s about to float off in the distance when he’s released and Dean holds him back, eyeing up the doctor for just that tiny say-so and Gabriel and Cas can get them the hell out of here. That is totally okay with him.

“Well, we’re done her, kiddo’s. Not so bad, right?” She smiles when Dean shoots into standing.

“Yeah,” Dean says, turning to face Cas. “Can we go? Please.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says hastily, nearly knocking the whole goddamn cabinet over in the restless little process. Gabriel doesn’t really pay much attention. He’s just eyeing the little one.

“’Kay,” and he follows them out, Sam The Limpet curled securely in his arms. Strong. Cas’ll like him then, Christ, perfect for the little alpha lover.

The alpha’s walk on the kids’ either side, Castiel nearest Dean and Gabriel near Sam on Dean’s hip, shoving his face against the fabric of Dean’s forest green collar. People stare and Gabriel glares, that’s just how it works. Goes pretty well, he thinks.

“Bye Mr and Mr Novak!” Becky calls from the reception desk. Gabriel salutes her and walks through the doors into the mid-morning sun. Looks good on the omega’s, the sun. He’d bet they didn’t see all too much of it back at that house. They can now. They can sunbathe if they want to.

It takes Gabriel two minutes tops to fetch the car and he swings it round quickly, smiling when they usher the boys in. Not an inch passes between them but now their scent fills the space and Gabriel wants to fucking _howl_ at it. He hopes it never washes out. Fresh chocolate cheesecake with ice-cream and cookie dough in a giant sized sundae. Oh Christ, _yes_.

Cas is twitching beside him and scenting the air with less subtlety than Gabriel’s used to from him, but hey. If anyone gets it, he does. ‘Cause if it smells anything like what Sam does to him…he’s having a hard time not shoving the car into park and leaping into the backseat.

They’re not even in heat. Maybe it’s ‘cause they’re brothers, they just instantly smell better as a pair.

Ew. A weird-ass biological thing if that’s true. Gross, he hopes not.

Still smell awesome though.

“Do we have to go to the…facility?” Dean asks quietly. No. You’re definitely not going anywhere near a facility with that cheesecake, not on your life kiddo…

Cas glances over at him.

“It’s common practice, Dean. You’ll be safe there…”

“I smell good to you, right? You like my scent?” Yep, Castiel’s gonna jizz his pants. Ha, hilarious. God, he should totally get this on film.

“Dean, that’s not—”

“I’m good. I’m really good, actually, and I’ll fuck you if you want. But just don’t…don’t make us go there okay? You can’t touch Sam,” bullshit and totally unfair, “but I can make it real good. We can come home with you, please.”

Gabriel turns in his seat because Castiel can’t (knots totally in the way, _ha_ ) and has to all but force his words from his mouth because that scent is fucking him up… “No-one’s fucking anyone, Dean, alright? The facility is safe and secure, there’re people there who can understand what you’ve been through better than we ever could. It’s okay if…”

“We don’t…I mean, I don’t want Sam…” A huffed out little sigh makes its way into the atmosphere of the car and ignites it, cranking up that _protectprotectprotect_ into, oh, say…the billions? Jesus Christ, Gabe’s alpha’s having a fucking sick day after all this shit. He sucks in another breath ( _get them home and warm and fed_ ) before eyeing Gabriel with wide determination and licking his lips. “They’ll put Sam in the system, right?”

“He’s sixteen?” Gabriel considers—doesn’t have to, but he figures Dean wouldn’t mind a little show—and nods at the kid. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Can’t. Can’t do that.”

Gabriel doesn’t squint his eyes and claw at the chance for new information on _hishishis_ omegas but it’s a very near thing. “…Why’s that, Dean?”

And those freaking orbs of pure jade narrow like they’ve just spotted what fell out of the stupid tree and his slim little fingers flex against Sammy’s bicep. “Because they’ll take him away,” he says with the underlying of _‘stupid fucking alphas’_. “They’re not gonna let a messed up, twenty year old omega crawl all over him are they? They’ll…ship me off to some psych place and foster him out to alphas. I’m not gonna let that happen to him. Besides…” but he trails off and Gabriel doesn’t have the heart right now to press him for it, not with those giant peepers going all glazed and doe like. Stunning creature. Kinda like how people appreciate peacocks or kittens, Gabriel can appreciate beauty. Definitely beautiful.

Cas is looking at him all meaningful-like and the next five seconds are spent in silent, weird-twitchy-eye conversation.

_-They’ll take it the wrong way if we take them home.-_

_-Who the fuck cares, have you smelt them?-_

_-This is no time to joke, Gabriel. Be serious.-_

_-…I wanna take them home.-_

_-*sigh* Of course you do. But we need to think logically here.-_

_-Cas, buddy, brother, you can’t tell me you didn’t get one whiff of those meringues back there and not want to scent mark them to oblivion. Lying’s a sin, kiddo.-_

_-This is for their well-being, not ours.-_

_-Dean-o just gave us perfect reason to blame this on their well-being…-_

_-Don’t do that. I know you care.-_

_-I do care. I want them curled up in front of the fire and warm and smelling all awesome on our own couch. I definitely care.-_

_-I…I don’t think they want someone to find them. Sam mentioned a ‘Dad’.-_

_-All the more reason. Deal?-_

_-…Deal. They use a guest bed, though.-_

_-Hey, now…_

Cas sighs all dramatic like and pulls the car over again because for someone almost permanently ominous, he does love the theatrical.

“Dean…we can offer you a room. A place to stay; food, shelter, clothes, anything you need. I think Anna can sort it out at the facility’s end, but Dean—it will mean we will need to take custody of Sam. So I will tell you truthfully now—whether you choose to believe me or not is entirely up to you—we will keep the two of you safe. We will never use anything against you relating to Sam, I promise. But at least this way you will be residing in one house.”

Gabriel dibs it. He _dibs_ it.

Twitching occurs from the backseat (only one seat—or half, actually—because both omegas have apparently decided the rest of the car is labelled out of bounds and tucking themselves behind the driver’s seat is the only way to go about it) from Kid one and Kid two because Dean’s nervous about shit so Sammy is too, and Dean noms at his full lip again.

“I’ll…I’ll make sure you want me to stay. I’ll make it good, okay?” Oh, Jesus Christ.

“No. No you will not, do you understand?” Cas practically freaking growls at the boy and gee, awesome going Cas, scare them before we even stash them. “I won’t touch you for a second, Dean, alright?” Hey, buddy, never say never. “You and your brother will be safe from both of us for as long as you remain in our care. We just got you out of one whore-house, Dean. I’m not letting you sink back into another.”

Scaring=awesome tactic.

But then Dean’s iron shoulders actually look…like they’re deflating somewhat. And those lines creasing his forehead too mature for his times unfold slowly and lightly, leaving his face open and wide and wondering and what the hell did Cas do? Worked though. Dean looks almost not ready to maul someone, how crazy is that shit?

“So…” he prompts, hiding his mouth ( _selfish_ ) from scrutiny in his brothers mop of hair. “Can we? Stay, I mean.”

Gabriel can’t even see Sammy, tucked away and hidden like he is. It makes his insides jerk in anger and a blatant need for already dished out revenge that this whole ‘out of sight out of alpha’s mind and need to fuck’ is- _was_ a regular occurrence for the two. Looks practiced enough. Ugh.

“Yes. As soon as we get inside I’ll make the calls and let Anna know your care is now in our hands.”

“Give the girl a heart attack,” Gabriel snorts. Cas interested in an omega—breaking news.

-Ω----C----Ω-

The boys are all but silent through the remainder of the trip, but Castiel wasn’t exactly expecting much else from that outcome.

He hadn’t exactly raided Alastair Grey’s home with the intention of housing his two omega slaves for an undefined amount of time in his own home but—years living with Gabriel will do this to person—he’s learnt well over time to roll with the punches.

Besides, it’s not like he’s reluctant to do it. The idea of giving the two shelter and care and a clearer clarity about the world around them makes Castiel’s alpha wag its tail and dance around in circles in anticipation. It won’t be easy—he’s not expecting it to be, he’s never liked easy—but he’s looking forward to it more than anything can express right now. Except that look; the one lighting Dean’s face only a few minutes ago when Castiel had gotten angry at the idea of _ever_ hurting either of them like that again. That proved all this was worth it and more.

“Home sweet home,” Gabriel grins when they pull halfway down the winding driveway, turning to watch what Castiel is sure to be daunt marring Dean’s perfect features.

It’s a large house (mansion, though Castiel disputes the term), there’s no denying it. When they’d first considered the purchase, Castiel had looked into its history and discovered it’s lucrative past, was always a nosy child. It’s builder—a Mr Timothy Dorway—built the house on deserted land during the Civil War of the early nineteen hundreds, pushing every slim penny he had into building the house and renting it out to omega couples in need of shelter away from the slave world driving on around them. Castiel’s not sure if Gabriel’s knows the houses past (who’s he kidding, of course he does) but he supposes right now it’s very fitting. He wonders if Mr Dorway would be proud of what it has become.

The exterior is gothic and straight from every cliché horror film Castiel will always refuse to watch, but the second they paid the mortgage right off the bat, they went about interior renovation. They love it inside. It definitely took them long enough to construct it.

“Whoa,” Dean hums testily at Castiel’s back, shuffles sounding as he moves his brother around him. “Nice house.”

“Cheers, Dean-o,” Gabriel grins, unclipping his belt and making a smooth way out of the door. “Remind me to give you a tour sometime.”

Castiel makes his way to the house and leaves Gabriel to tend to coaxing the timid creatures they’ve very recently adopted, unlocking the front door and leading the way inside.

Dean carries Sam and both sets of wide eyes scan over the white-work, every wall, ceiling and carpet stained the blanc colour with splashes of Gabriel around the place making it more of a home. But this—the white—is for show. Both Castiel and Gabriel’s floors of the house show colour and warmth, but they wanted variety. It’s a big enough house, so they went for it.

The hallway—long and wide—leads neatly into the wide, high-ceiling space of living room with floor to chandelier windows at it’s back, and an open archway makes room to the kitchen. Old fashioned. Balthazar’s idea.

He leads them through it.

“The kitchen,” he nods for them, smiling slightly to stilt the intimidating look Pamela sometimes chastises him for. Dean just stares at him and Sam blinks around, yawning. “Gabriel can show you your rooms in just a moment, but I wanted to say something…You’re free here. Both of you; if you're living here right now, I want you to know this house belongs to you too. I understand this is fast, but it’s also willing, and I would like for the both of you to be comfortable. So. Help yourselves. You’re safe here. Please, get some rest.”

Gabriel winks when he leads them away; through the living room and up an iron set of winding stairs that lead straight up to the third floor. Gabriel’s floor: unsurprising. Castiel watches them go with a wide set curiosity, playing the scene over in his mind before jolting back to it and dialling the phone.

Anna picks up on the second ring.

“Cas? Dude, you’re late. Are you driving on the phone? How many times, you crash with those omegas in the car, I swear…”

Castiel cuts her off with a sigh and settles himself into the kitchen islands stool.

“I’m not driving. We’re home, I was calling to inform you—”

“No. Absolutely not, you don’t get to keep them, _no_. Cas, come on, you know how much paperwork goes into immediate adoption? Why would you do that to some poor temp, huh?”

“File it to me, and I’ll do it. I’m thinking about them, Anna,” he says stonily, frowning at his sister over the phone. “They don’t want to go to the facility.”

“Tough shit, that’s how it works…”

Castiel growls low in his throat and feels his hackles rise. She’s not usually so insensitive, why is she acting so cruel, she has no reason… “I am not having them split up. You understand? Dean will not leave his brother and I will not be the one to make him. Email me the paperwork and I’ll have it done for whenever you need it. I’m leaving now. Goodnight, Anna.”

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey, buddy, not so fast,” she interjects, something thumping on her end like a rolling chair hitting a wall. “Someone’s gotta take the little one on, sure, but it’s not just him. Dean needs a care giver too. Should be in a mental ward after what he was like with his brother—”

“Shut _up,_ Anna.”

“…Cas, I’m telling you that you need to keep Dean, too. Literally. It’s a stupidly big responsibility Cas, seriously, just bring them to the facility tonight and you’ll be none the wiser.”

“Anna,” Castiel explains slowly. “File me the paperwork. Gabriel, I’m sure, will sign off on Sam, and I am more than comfortable, I assure you, to look after Dean. Put my name beside his and be done with it. Goodnight.”

“Dude—” but Castiel’s gone.

Christ, what was wrong with her tonight?

“’Sup, brother?” Gabriel cheers, returning himself into the kitchen and pouring a cup of sugar infused coffee. “Sorted?”

“Yes,” Castiel mutters, rubbing at his head. “Anna wasn’t particularly helpful though.”

Gabriel shrugs and reaches one wandering hand across the table to dance dramatically and grip Castiel’s own, intertwining the fingers like they used to as naïve little pups. Before the world turned and bit them in the ass. “Time of the month?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “We need to fill in paperwork. You can take Sam and I’ll take Dean. Did they settle in, okay?”

He’s still grinning about the ‘taking Sam’ thing, so Castiel waits a second for the reply. "Locked the door the second I was out, but I wasn’t expecting much less. Otherwise they were fine.”

“Did you give them…”

“Two tees, pair of sweats and boxers, each. Sammy just shook on the bed, but hey, right?”

Castiel sighs and takes his hand back. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

Gabriel’s answering grin is slightly terrifying, but mainly reassuring. “Yeah were are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Gabriel lusting after a sixteen year old abuse victim. Not cool bro.  
> Sammy's drugged and it's depresssiiiiiing.  
> Sam begs not to have an injection and I'm warning cause it makes me wanna cryyyyyy.
> 
> Also they blame Anna being spitefully logical on it being her time of the month and that pisses me offfff so...


	4. The Hero Does Not Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

The next time Sam opens his eyes it’s to a much clearer clarity than when he closed them and for that, at least, he’s grateful.

He remembers everything which in itself isn’t particularly unusual, but sometimes—after a really crappy night beneath Azazel and more than just a black eye in the morning—his brain decides it’s simply not worth evoking and he just smiles limply at his wide-eyed, staring, confused big brother and leaves it at that.

Apparently Sam’s brain very much wants him to remember. Not entirely sure if that’s a good thing or a bad one.

So he opens his eyes.

He’s on his side, apparently, and the first thing he sees is warm flesh; the first thing his brain wants him to register is that same warm flesh pressed so close, and his nose reminds him that _DeanDeanDean_ is right here and as long as he’s in this fleshy little cocoon he’s good. Very good and it smells right from this close up—that strange alpha a backdrop to the perfect _omegafamilyhome_ they’ve made themselves over the years. Sam presses closer and scents at one nude collar bone before it’s owner can quit the sleeping charade and yank them back to reality like he always does.

“Mornin’, baby,” he says.

Sam rolls his eyes and shuffles backwards along the mattress (ten times better than the crappy one they shared at Alastair’s, by the way, Dean should not be ruining this) to watch Dean’s still tired gaze wash mechanically over him.

“Not a baby,” he says instinctively, scanning his own conclusion over the sleep-deprived lines of his brother’s face. He narrows his eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

“How you feeling?” No, then. Goddammit.

Dean’s hand—warm and soft—makes its distracting way to Sam’s hairline to play with the tuft near his temples, tilting his fingertips along the shell of his ear. His face is carefully blank the same way it always is if Sam can’t even get out of bed from the pain and Dean can’t help him from his own. But that’s not what’s happening now, is it? Sam doesn’t feel all that hurt—even though his arm’s aching a bit from the needle and his ass could definitely be in better shape because Azazel needs to learn the term ‘prep’; Dean’s okay save his probably aching back and his arms probably won’t forgive him for a while yet—but none of that’s anything to get all stony about.

No. This is for the Alphas.

“Fine,” Sam replies smoothly, his throat purring unwillingly at his brothers ministrations. He always feels like a cat ( _kitten, Christ_ ) when they do this, arching into the soft strokes down the side of his face and mewling at the scent and feel and perfection Dean can coax out of him. But it’s good for both of them otherwise Sam wouldn’t let him do it. “You?”

“Good,” Dean replies, too quickly. “It’s gone, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. There’s no fog in his brain and he’s not fighting the instinct to lick Dean’s scent anymore, so yeah, it’s gone. Thank God. He sighs. “Yeah, it’s gone. Dunno why it lasted so long in the first place.”

Dean blinks down at him from across the pillow and his hand stills somewhat against his hair. “You remember then?”

“Yeah.”

Sam nudges him to keep going.

“Oh,” he breathes, moving his touches down to Sam’s throat. “Just sometimes you don’t, that’s all.”

Sam nods. “Mm,” he agrees, figuring belatedly that Dean probably needs some touches of his own to at least try to calm the torrents in his brain; so smooth’s his hand beneath a down comforter to palm it along the wing of his brothers strong hipbone. His face twitches quickly but otherwise he doesn’t react. “Guess I needed to remember this. Dean…”

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” he says and Sam’s heart skips in despair when Dean tries to force a smile—hesitant and jolting and it doesn’t reach his darkened up eyes and—God, _please_ —he shouldn’t be forcing it just for Sam’s sake. So it’s pure instinct driving him when Sam kisses it straight off.

“I should have helped you. Wasn’t fair leaving you like that, m’sorry,” he says, his lips damp when he slides them against the edge of his brother’s. “I’m here now, though, okay? I’m fine.”

Dean stops touching altogether when he lifts off suddenly, huffing out an irritated sigh between staring at Sam incredulously like he’s just admitted Black Widow’s hotter than Wonder Woman, and donning a painfully self-deprecating scowl. Sam follows him in sitting beneath the comforter and winds after him, but Dean just shrugs him off. He tries not to look too wounded.

“Don’t, Sam. Don’t do that. It’s not your goddamn fault, how many times do I have to say it? _He_ jabbed you full of that shit, _he_ made you like that. You didn’t do anything, so for Christ’s sake, stop apologising for shit you can’t change.” Those hands—hands Sam knows the strength of, he can remember his Real Dean—tremble as they glide through his hair, pushing it into a disarray Sam usually rolls his eyes at and pats down. He doesn’t now though. Dean’s still exuding that _‘back the hell off and leave me to wallow’_ scent he’s always emitting like this, and right now, Sam knows better than to try and comfort him with touch.

 “Okay,” Sam placates instead, even if they both know that’s not what he wants to say.

Dean eyes him from over the top of one finger-bruised wrist, green orbs halved from where his eyes are slanted. He doesn’t believe Sam and Sam doesn’t want him to, because no matter how shitty Dean feels the morning after, it’s nothing compared to what Sam left him alone to the night before. Those alphas…Christ, Sam remembers everything and he remembers Dean’s scent at the exact point it was sucked away from him and the exact point he shoved his nose so close it had no choice but to appease. Dean was scared. Hell, Dean was downright terrified and Sam (like a fucking baby) only made that worse, coaxing it higher until he was actually _shaking_. The least he could have done was sit there quietly (clinging to one little hand if he _really_ needed that badly) and not make a fuss—the _least_ —but no, he had to be the freak. Again.

God, Dean shouldn’t have had to deal with that. He should never have to deal with that.

“Alastair jabbing me…that wasn’t my fault,” he skirts around the words Dean wants to hear and he can see the cant in Dean’s gaze to know his brother knows it too, but neither do anything. He wasn’t lying after all. He knows there was nothing he could have done without endangering the both of them, and Dean already had his hands full with Alastair—his mouth too, if the taste of his lips was anything to go by.

Yeah, Sam needs to touch Dean again, comfort him.

It’s been a really, _really_ fucked up night.

“Damn straight,” Dean grumbles, voice croaked, and they both know that means this particular argument is stored for now in favour of more pressing things. Like what the fuck they’re doing in a white—cream, what the hell ever—room with a pink blanket over the top of them, and a stupidly huge skylight making it ruthlessly clear how _morning_ it actually is. Light-wooden fixtures dot the room around them and next to the bed, a few metres over to the right, is the built in, modern looking wardrobe where Gabriel stored their ‘clothes’ and left them well informed that he was sleeping only a few doors away with a kind looking smirk that Sam’s pretty sure—even now—was totally aimed at him.

Again, not sure how to feel about that.

Dean’s the first to curl closer, but the timid tilt to his gaze gives Sam the incentive to make up the rest of the space and press his chest down to the dips of Dean’s thighs. He scents at the bare, carved at skin awarded to the plane of his face (they went to bed in boxers because Dean knows they needed as much skin as they could get with the sea of alpha all around them and borrowed clothes from Gabriel wouldn’t have been great) and rests there, satisfied. Dean strokes at his hair and hushes him silently.

“Christ,” Sam mutters into the letters there on his brothers skin, letting his own words ghost over them as a reminder that they don’t bother him. “What the hell is happening?”

Dean huffs, and at least this time it resembles something of a humoured sound.

“Hell if I know. Next time I woke up, I thought I’d be in Alastair’s bed with two black eyes and enough of that fucking red wine in my system to keep me there for weeks,” he sucks in a breath and Sam has to clamp his lips to point out that Dean hadn’t actually been doing much of that sleeping. “Didn’t exactly expect this. Better though, I guess. Right now anyway.”

“I’ll say,” Sam agrees, ducking that impossible inch closer and letting his chin rest against the waistband of Dean’s boxers. “Azazel looked like he was in it for the long haul this time. As…” embarrassing, horrifying, scarring, “ _weird_ as this all was, I think I’d rather be here right now. In here, anyway. Don’t wanna go outside.”

“I know, Sammy, I know,” Dean sighs noncommittally, his thumb coming to rest at that little joint-bone at the nape of Sam’s neck, just being a soft weight and entity there whilst they busy themselves breathing each other in.

“What do we do now?” Sam asks, and isn’t that just the million dollar question.

“I dunno,” Dean says, voice too quiet for either of them to be all that comfortable. “Jeese, dude, I have no idea. Food maybe? We’ll have to go down at some point.”

“Yeah.” No. God, no, please.

“…Hey, Sam?” Dean asks after a pause too long.

Sam nods his intrigue, lips too busy in their quest to find the smoothest parts of Dean’s carved-at torso.

“You’re okay with this, right?” he says, and Sam lifts from his mission to eye him. “I mean it was all a bit touch and go there for a while—man, I was totally ready to dive outta that car…but this, I mean. You think we should have gone to the facility?”

“They’d have taken you away,” Sam frowns, lifting slightly to gain a higher space. “You said yourself, they’d separate us and give me to some weirdo family and you’d have gone to some psych place, Dean…”

“Maybe,” he starts, and Sam just knows this isn’t gonna be good. He sucks in a breath and lifts his brow like Sam’s actually gonna consider whatever he’s about to say. “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The alpha said they know what they’re doing, right?”

Sam blinks. Against the disheartened, maddened betrayal burning its path through his gullet; the soft, growing and fuelled rage bubbling loosely in the pit of his stomach and a roar of disbelief so painful at the notion that his own brother would say something so careless and cruel.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that,” he whispers instead, moving off of Dean anyway and sinking back to himself, curling around his torso to try and sate the ice burning inside of him.

“Sam,” Dean trails, trying to follow, but Sam shifts him off. Yeah. Not fun, is it? “Sammy, you know that’s not what I’d want in a million years, and I know right now you don’t want it either…but later, maybe you’ll—”

“Shut up!” Sam hisses, glaring desperately through the heat blazing along the bottoms of his eyes, blinking the threat away. “Why would you say that, Jesus, just shut _up_. After everything,” he has to push Dean away again, “Dad and Alastair and…and _Roman_ …after all of that you want to get rid of me? I thought you—”

“Don’t, Sammy, come on, baby,” he says, and that expression he’s pulling says he’s matching Sam’s totally-not-crying fight head on, “I don’t want to get _rid_ of you, for fuck’s sake, Sam, the thought of losing you now makes me want to haul-ass off a fucking bridge, Jesus fuck.” He means it and Sam would know that even if the whole ‘fuck’ thing wasn’t such a huge indicator. “I don’t want to lose you, Sammy,” he bends closer but Sam’s not done yet and he pushes him off. “Baby. I just need you to be okay.”

“You really think I’d be anything like _‘okay’_ if they dragged you away from me like you’re some villain?” Battle lost, officially, but it’s not _sobbing_. His eyes are just…watering. Like Dean’s. “Why would you even say something like that, Dean, I can’t even imagine…I can’t do it, okay? I will never be okay if you leave me, never. I need you, Dean, why would you even…”

“Baby, Sammy, alright, alright, I’m sorry,” he crawls closer and Sam lets him this time, but he doesn’t react, just lets himself be curled against a solid-feeling chest like a ragdoll and nudges his head out of a querying nose’s way. Dean’s face is damp against his throat, but Sam’s heart is racing to quickly for him to really care. Dean wouldn’t leave him. Dean couldn’t…

“Say it,” he says numbly. Dean presses closer, stretching himself along the curl of Sam’s back. “Promise me you won’t leave.

“I won’t leave, baby, I’m sorry.” Wet lips and Sam bends somewhat forwards, offering a smooth curve for his brother to lay himself out on. “I promise Sammy, okay? I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t leave me, Dean,” Sam says, loosening his limbs for his brother’s configuration and offering his own compliance. “Promise? Don’t make me go away.”

“Won’t. Never, Sammy, I’ll never let them take you, I swear to God, you’re staying with me wherever, okay? Always, baby, always, I promise, I’m sorry, Sammy. Love you, baby.”

 Sam won’t leave Dean, he just won’t do it, okay? Angels themselves could try to pry them apart but, Christ, Sam isn’t letting one measly little finger off Dean’s char ruined t-shirt and that’s how it’s gonna be forever. Always. Dean knows that, he just says stupid things sometimes…

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says calmly, and Sam lets him. He means it this time.

“S’okay, big brother. Just don’t…don’t say things like that, okay? Please?”

And Dean nods frenziedly against Sam’s shoulder blade, his mouth wet with a soothing kind of desperation that Sam could bend into for the rest of his waking days. He purrs again and some of the tenseness from the body at his back eases gently so Sam guesses it has it’s desired effect. Dean doesn’t offer an answering one of his own, but the last time Sam heard his brother mewl like that, Sam was hiding behind the banisters and Dean was on Dad’s lap and remembering Mom from pictures out of their dad’s old journal. And that was a very, very long time ago.

“You should go to sleep, Dean,” Sam suggests, lowering them gently back beneath the cream comforter and rosy blanket so his tough brother doesn’t spook. “Can’t face two alpha assassins exhausted, huh?”

Sam can all but feel the roll in his brother’s eyes.

“Don’t get too carried away, little brother,” he says, smile indented over Sam’s skin. “I still run the show.” And _there’s_ obnoxious, asshole, regular Dean. Sam grins. God, he loves him.

“Sure you do. Wanna nap? I’m not hungry yet or anything, we can sleep.”

“Ooh, so close, kiddo, shouldn’t have called it ‘napping’. Besides, dude, I did sleep, come on. I’m _fine_ ,” he drawls, and blows a raspberry over the skin of Sam’s back to incite the familiar squeal and squirm at the totally gross sensation. “You haven’t eaten in over a day. Hop to it, I’m starving.”

“Oh,” Sam pauses, turning in the grip to eye his brother from beneath him. “We’re going downstairs.”

Dean sobers and tilts his head, resting his weight on an elbow beside Sam’s head and tracing his fingers idly through Sam’s hair. “Yeah. Pretty sure they don’t offer room service in this joint.” He’s not smiling, but his voice is wispy and knowing and Sam bows into it, tugging Dean’s body onto his with a tug at his waist.

“’Kay,” Sam sighs. “Dean?” His brother nods. “Don’t offer to do anything again, okay? Even if they ask, please just don’t…try not to? Please.”

Dean’s eyes deflate even more, his fingers stall in Sam’s hair and he avoids eye contact like it carries the freaking plague, and Sam doesn’t force him.

“Yeah. Guess I just figured a couple fucks wouldn’t be as bad as leaving you. Ironic, right?” he smiles sheepishly.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Idiotic, yes. Least they said no, right?”

“Mm,” Dean agrees noncommittally, lifting off and moving to stand by the bed, stretching his arms above him. “Doesn’t mean much, buddy. But if it means staying put and no one leaves anyone, than I’m not making any promises.” He turns back to Sam. “Sorry.”

But Sam just nods, following suit and sitting on the edge of the bed, head resting against Dean. “I can help, too. I think Gabriel liked my scent—at least, you know, the slick—so maybe I could—”

“No,” Dean says instantly. “No-one’s touching you. I already told them that, okay? You’re a kid, Sam, no-one’s touching you like that again, I promise. I’ll fucking kill them.”

“Yeah,” Sam hums, nuzzling at the sweat built up at his brother’s waistband. Doesn’t mean it and Dean knows. This is just another one of those arguments they’re gonna pack away for a rainy day.

“Think we can get away with our own clothes?” Dean asks idly, toeing at a discarded pair of jeans by his foot and wrinkling his nose at the idea of the Alpha-scented crap in the ominous wardrobe. Not their clothes, not really, it’s just that it smells like them (and Alastair and Azazel and now a musty aroma of these new alphas) but it’s at least familiar. They’re gonna need to wear these new clothes in for a few hours at least before it starts to smell like them but they’re still in a new, alpha ruled house. The only omega in it belongs to them and that was a fleeting walk past, it’s going to be nothing but a bombard of alpha when they go downstairs again. Ugh.

“He asked us to wear them,” Sam says, nodding at the closet. “Maybe we should. Best not to get off on the wrong foot.” That bristles Dean, but he knows Sam’s right so he goes over there anyway.

“Heh,” Dean says, plucking out a black t-shirt with Led Zeppelin written on the front and a graphic of a weird looking angel. He brings that—and two pairs of grey sweats and another shirt—over to the bed and plonks them onto it. “Has good taste at least,” he grins.

The top smells like Cas-something—the guy with the intense, intimidating gaze and messy black hair—which means Dean’s borrowing it from him. The other t-shirt—navy with ‘stay cool’ and a snowflake—smells like Gabriel. Somewhere along the line, it definitely looks like they’re trying too hard. But if they went the other way and… _God. Just wear whatever, will you?_

Dean helps him into the snowflake shirt because it’s a daily routine they wouldn’t want to get out of and Sam’s ribs have just decided to piss him off today. Dean smirks when he combs a hand full of fingers through his hair, pretending to lick his palm and smooth it over Sam’s head. Sam bats him away smiling, and it’s like that that Sam clings to the hem of Dean’s tee like his life depends on it; Dean gulps as his hand touches the locked knob and they both share a nervous flicker of a glance before they take deep breaths and push out into hallway.

Here we go, right?

-Ω----G----Ω-

It’s just about gone one billion in the morning when the two precious sex-pots make their way down the iron stairs again and refill their scents into all the nooks they forgot to yesterday afternoon. Gabriel scents like a bloodhound with the safe knowledge that little-judgy-hypocritical brother is turned towards the stove and his little perfection incarnated and bro are behind a very stable, very old, boring as hell white wall. But he sneaks a glance at the Marilyn Monroe graffiti in front of Cas and smirks like he always does, placated with his mark.

He pretends he didn’t sense the pair ages ago when they turn the corner, four eyes wide—two with suspicion and a hint of embarrassment above ruddy, still slightly chubby cheeks, and the other from needing all that extra space to analyse any trouble for his baby brother. Gabriel can respect that, God, of course he can.

He smiles like he’s surprised to see them (he is a little bit, come on) and busies himself clearing the space of three stools adjacent to him, letting Dean decide himself whether he wants to hide off at the other end of the island with his brother or not.

“Morning,” Gabriel waves with two fingers, grinning widely. “Sleep well?”

Sam nods timidly but Dean ignores him, eyeing the surroundings instead. Gabriel winks at the boy and puts effort into making it kind or soothing to ease Sammy and offer Dean comfort that his intentions towards his brother totally aren’t weird and creepy—if he ever turns his gaze from the wide window near him.

Sam nods back, which isn’t exactly what Gabriel was expecting ( _okay, so table sex was kinda unrealistic_ ) but it’s a hundred percent better than nothing.

“Good morning,” Castiel says, smiling as he wipes his hands dry on a dishtowel. He comes to stand opposite them with the island a middle ground between a seriously now-glaring Dean and himself, smiling for all it’s worth at the hostility.

Sam’s hand is white knuckled against the hem of Dean’s Castiel tee, fidgeting along the seam what Gabriel will assume is his only outlet of reliance on his brother—the timid glances and downward stares simply shyness from years of abuse, but Gabriel would bet clinging to Dean’s shirt is all he’ll allow himself after yesterday. It’s nice to see him coherent and standing. Even nicer to see him coherent and standing in Gabe’s t-shirt, nicer indeed. He hasn’t scent him up-close yet, he’s saving it for later, oh the mingling of their scents…

“…Morning,” Dean says finally. He seems to relax slightly from his keyed up position earlier, his shoulders lowering from his hair tips to his ears now, so that’s good. Gabriel smiles at him.

“Find your way down okay?” He asks, kicking at the furthest chair he can reach with his foot (the middle one) and nodding to it, offering a seat. Dean’s hesitant, but he slips into it all the same and tugs Sam down into the other one, furthest from Gabriel. That’s okay, totally fine. He can wait.

“Yeah, fine,” Dean says distractedly. He’s eyeing up the stove.

Castiel clicks on and turns back to it slightly, moving out of the way and giving Dean free range of sight to watch it eagerly, every now and them flicking quick, assessing glances to Sammy.

“You must be starving,” Castiel says, smiling from dropping it upon the realisation, and turning up the gas to make the eggs and bread fizzle. “I’m making French-toast with bacon and eggs. Is that alright?”

Dean just frowns up at Cas like he’s informed him aliens from the planet Krypton have decided to invade Tanzania, full lips parted through quick breaths and eyes narrowed in disbelief. Sweet-Sammy’s just staring up at his brother with wide eyes like he’s waiting for him to answer, but when he just keeps staring up at Cas, he clears his throat and moves a hand into Dean’s on the table.

He’s got nice hands, the kid. Nice voice when it’s not raw from a gag or slurred pumped with drugs. “That’s…fine. Thank you.” Yeah. Fucking awesome voice.

Gabriel grins at him.

“Alright,” Castiel says, turning when the microwave pings and breaking the contact with Dean, who turns the colour of the ruddy apple in the basket before him, glancing quickly at his interlinked hand and scanning over to stare guiltily at Sam and offer the boy a tense shrug. Sammy nods with a small ( _stunning_ , holy shit) smile and offers a shrug of his own.

“How you both feeling?” Gabriel asks, reclining back against his stool and smirking over at both of them. Sam glances a quick look his way before lowering his gaze to his fingers next to Dean’s, but Dean stares at him outright, frown in place. “Better after sleep, I guess, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, every other second turning to peek over at the cooking Cas, his nose flaring as he scents at the awesome smelling air.

If there’s one thing Cas can do outside of kill people with his bare hands and make a clear shot from the roof of a building, it’s cook. The little multi-tasker he is, could probably do it at the same time. Hell, he probably has.

Jesus, Gabriel’s this sure that Sam’s mouth opening is so he can answer Gabriel that yes, Christ, he would have slept better swaddled in his scent—and his phone rings, buzzing around in his pants pocket and fucking yelling that he’s not done. Selfish fucking thing, taking him away, “’scuse me a sec,” from Sammy when he’s being so pretty and sweet smelling like that over there, all perfect and beautiful and…

“Jesus, Pam, what?” Gabriel snaps, the second he’s out of range from the sizzling kitchen and pacing out near the other end of the living room.

“Nice to hear from you too,” the beta says, a clear goddamn smile on her lips and does she even _know_ what she’s pulled him away from—the little dip in Sam’s face when he was interrupted like that, _God_.

“Pam, unless you’re telling me it’s official and we can finally get down and dirty, I’m really not all that interested.”

She chuckles on the other end but it’s taut and controlled and Gabriel’s instincts are up like fucking lightening, “Not yet, sugar lips, trust—”

“What’s wrong?” Gabriel snaps before she can finish, pacing quicker back and force and urging her to just hurry the hell up and spill it already, whatever the hell it is. “Is it one of the omegas? Has something happened? Christ, Pam, tell me.”

“Alright, alright,” she says, he just knows she’s rolling her eyes by the huff in her voice. “No, the omegas are fine. Jo’s back with Charlie, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know… No, Gabe, I was just calling to let you know…Jesus. Sam. He’s, uh…”

“What? Pam what, is he okay? Is he sick or something, has someone asked after him?”

“I’m guessing they don’t know.” She sucks in a breath. “He’s pregnant, Gabe. Couple weeks, far as I can tell. But he’s pregnant.”

Oh fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Not really any, I guess, except Pam fills Gabe in on Sam's pregnancy.


	5. Despite My Faults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty short chapter, but I really just wanted to get it on out there :) Let me know if you enjooooyed!!
> 
> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

Omegas, unless forced otherwise, are benign little creatures. Timid to a fault, actually, and it’s been long since proven how much danger that little factor can filter into their lives. Alpha’s are built and designed to protect them, manufactured to understand their needs and pour pups into their soft little stomachs, feed and nurture their packs. Omegas are designed _for_ protection. Reliance. Their scent alone is enough to pull any alpha within a one mile radius to their door; a heat scent drawing attention to their fertile channels and practically begging for them to knot and sate and comfort.

Alphas are stout, head-strong beings. Omegas have pressure points to be sated and a need to sleep in canopy-covered beds. One is made for the other, and that’s the way it’s always been.

But it doesn’t mean that’s the way it always works.

In Castiel’s field of work, he’s seen more traumatised, terrorized omegas than he’s seen happy ones. They get one whiff of his scent, and they’re on their knees and begging, pleading with him for less pain or bargaining a ‘good fuck’ as a reason for him not to hurt them. He’s seen them beaten and bloody and still reaching for his belt buckle. He’s seen them clinging to the broken bodies of their alpha and staring up at him in betrayed horror. He’s seen…the worst of their personality. He’s seen everything.

But The Brothers currently curled at his kitchen table…they’re different.

Sam’s different from the mess he was last night, different from that archaic little thing Castiel had been forced to scent for the whole length of their ride home; still timid, of course, but not lost anymore. His slim boned hand still grips at the hem of his brother’s shirt, his scent is still tinged with that uncomfortable bitterness at being forced from his home more than once in his life, Castiel is sure, and dragged into a foreign territory. A foreign, _alpha_ territory. Castiel would be amazed if he was anything but terrified.

And then…and then there’s Dean. Strong, determined Dean. Handsome, omega-softened Dean, even taller than himself; piercing, suspicious, emerald-hued eyes and pillowed lips perfect to caress. He could—without that scent and timid bow to his shoulders—pass easily as a beta, even a very soft and attractive alpha, if he didn’t carry such an air of wrongness. Distrustful Dean. Shoved into the role of carer far too soon and forced to stay there without help or support from an alpha. Abused like Castiel sees daily and kicked down until his place, without question, is obedience. Ripped down the middle between instincts and protection like no omega should have forced on them, a barely presented brother abused before his own eyes and convinced the boy’s fate is a fault of his own. Determined he doesn’t need an alpha, he shouldn’t _want_ an alpha after the things he’s been forced to live through, but his body craves it not the less. He must be dying inside. Castiel wants to heal him.

Castiel has never had much association with omegas. Of course, his job entails it, but there’s a reason he didn’t sign up for the facility side of the job and instead preferred the field. He’s an alpha, and his natural protection ensures the sobbing things at his feet will have no threat to live by in their homes anymore, and he’s very pleased to offer them that. But from a mate point of view…he’s never looked very closely. Most of his dates through high school consisted of headstrong betas—the odd ruckus omega, but very few—and Castiel’s latest interest was an alpha. So his attraction to Dean…shouldn’t _be_ , if he’s following his own pattern. But it is. It very much is.

“We’ll install a new bed once you’ve both settled in a little more,” Castiel offers them along with two plates of fried-crap on Gabriel’s insistence, smiling with the serve. Sam offers a timid one back—though his attention is barely held by the kitchen anymore, and Gabriel hasn’t yet returned to them—but Dean barely glances up. Green eyes boring into his hands. “Is the room okay?” he asks, sitting opposite, far enough away. “I’m not sure which one Gabriel put you in.”

Dean glances up at that, and this time it’s Sam’s attention officially deviated, still peering over at the parting wall separating living room from kitchen. Green eyes blink guiltily, flitting between the back of Sam’s turned head and eyeing Castiel like he needs to say something.

And then Castiel understands. “There’s a skylight?” he says.

Dean looks shocked for all of one second, before he schools his perfect features once more and nods, glancing down to his hands.

Castiel frowns before insisting, “Eat, please,” and they both go about it, startling sheepishly before scampering to the knives and forks and tucking in. Castiel offers a smile. “You can swap rooms, if you’d prefer. Or we could install blind,” he offers instead, upon realising it’s probably not best to move them on quite so soon after such an upset in their system. “The canopy bed will cover most of it, but I’m sure a blind will work well if you’d like the sunlight sometimes.”

Dean glances up again, pausing in his devouring. “You don’t…” he glances to Sam, still chewing distractedly. “You don’t have to put a new bed in. We’ve never really had one before, so…it’s fine. Really.”

Castiel waves him off, taking his own first bite. “You’ll be more comfortable, and if you’re staying here indefinitely, that’s exactly what we want you to be.” He hastens to add, at Dean’s narrowed expression, “You’re welcome for as long as you want it, don’t worry. We won’t force anything on you, but…a canopy bed might be good for you. Help you sleep. Once you’re scent’s settled in there, we’ll go about renovations. And the blinds.”

The older omega looks about ready to argue the point, but he deflates somewhat between glaring at his barely touched food, staring idly at his brother’s profile and flicking his gaze in tremors up to Castiel. He picks up his utensils again and gets back to it, scraping a heap of syrup onto his French bread and spearing pieces of cut sausage and bacon. Castiel holds in a chuckle at the Gabriel-like gesture, and goes back to smiling at the boy, offering small nods when Sam mouths a ‘thank you’.

“Cas, buddy, can I, uh, borrow you a sec?” comes a voice, and Castiel glances up to see Gabriel hovering at the left side of the dividing wall, the opposite to where he left—a sheepish expression darkening elfish features. Castiel nods and stands. “S’okay, kiddos, won’t be long,” he grins over at them, winking, “keep eating, okay? Steal some of Cas’ if you have to, huh?”

Dean threads a hand out to turn Sam back to his food, but he doesn’t return to his own as far as Castiel can see, and then he’s rounding the corner and the boys are out of sight. Castiel turns to Gabriel—once they’ve halted at the other side of the room—and glares at him.

“What?” he snaps.

The older alpha shoves a hand roughly through his early-morning hair (ruffled like it always is, before a cup of sugar induced coffee and energy to find a comb) and drags it down his face. “Guess who I was just talking to?” he says, offering Castiel a strong eye contact. Castiel frowns. “Pam. Fucking…” he trails off, tilting his head to the ceiling and breathing out a heavy sigh.

Castiel’s heart picks up at that notion and he punches a soft hand to his brother’s arm. “What? Gabriel, what’s the problem? _Gabriel_.”

His brother sighs before offering, with weakened eyes, “Sam’s pregnant.”

Oh. Oh, _crap_.

“Sam?” Castiel says, frowning in disbelief. The boy’s _sixteen_. “ _That_ Sam?”

Gabriel punches back and rolls his eyes. “Yes, _that Sam_. What the fuck other Sam am I gonna be talking about?”

He’s stressed, Castiel can smell it, sense it on him. Stressed not dissimilar to the way an alpha might be upon the news of his mate in a crisis, stressed like Sam’s his mate. Dammit, Gabriel.

“He’s not yours,” he blurts out, not thinking beyond the knowledge. “Sam. You’re worried like he’s your mate and he’s not, so don’t.”

Gabriel just stares at him, and Castiel feels a flush of guilt, averting his gaze. “Fuck you, Cas,” he says, monotone. “And you know what? That pregnant, underage _pup_ of an omega out there _is_ mine. Legally, the boy belongs to me, you’re the one that said it, you get that? So fuck you, Castiel, I am worried for him. I can feel your heart, brother, it’s beating the same as mine. Sam may not be my mate, but he’s my responsibility, and I can worry for him all I like, _thank you_.”

Castiel, decently chastised, backs down at that, averting his gaze.

Gabriel’s correct, of course, and he’s sure if it were the other way around, the knowledge of Dean being unwittingly marred by a pup would spark the same instinct inside of him. Neither boy asked for it, neither boy knows, and both belong in this house now, this territory. Pumped with another alphas seed. Unnatural. Wrong. Gabriel has every right to be worried.

They both dart equally startled gazes toward the entryway when the sound of the bell echoes around them. Gabriel rolls his eyes and shakes his head, heading over towards it, and Castiel shakes himself back and edges back to the boys. They’re watching the hallway when he first glances at them, before turning attention to him when he sits back down and picks up his fork again.

“Eat, please,” he says, avoiding eye contact. The boy’s _pregnant_. They move back to their plates, barely touched since Castiel walked out, “You’ll need your strength.”

Bitter surprise pops into the air at that comment, from which one Castiel’s not sure, but he’s too distracted to correct them. He only meant…he shouldn’t have said anything. His own scent must be riddled with sourness, it must be rubbing them wrong. But nothing much can happen until Gabriel gets back and they can inform the sixteen year old that a rapist alpha’s seed is currently making a home inside his stomach.

Gabriel returns moments later—of the boys mechanically obeying and shovelling in food, Castiel picking at his own—with a thick brown manila folder. He whistles under his breath and drops it with a loud, obtrusive clap to the table. “Woman wasn’t lying about paper-work, was she?”

The boy’s paperwork. They’ll have to explain themselves on that front as well then, before or after ruining the children with knowledge of another. Maybe after. So they know nothing changes.

Castiel eyes Gabriel. He eyes him back. It’s agreed then. Once they’ve finished eating, and drinking the tall glasses of orange juice.

Gabriel finishes his own plate before any of them, scraping it clean with an extra helping of syrup. Sam next (with insistent nudges that he’s not finished whether he wants to be or not from his brother, every time he tries to put his utensils down) and then Dean, Castiel stopping when he does. They all finish far too quickly, and Castiel’s up and washing the plates before anything serious can be discussed—before the content, suspicious, doe-eyed look of the _sixteen year old boy_ can be ruined with knowledge.

He’s back at the table, hands folded over one another, and glancing at the folder when Gabriel starts speaking.

Castiel’s too weak.

“So, uh,” he starts, earning their gazes. “Pamela just called. The doctor?” they both nod. “She had…some news.”

Dean’s eyes adopt a slightly feral look, narrowing to the alpha and flicking his gaze all over the place. He wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders and just _glares_. “What?” he demands.

Castiel sighs. “It’s about Sam,” he says.

Dean’s scent escalates and in response, Sam’s follows. “I told you you’re not touching him. I don’t care what the fuck anyone tells you, you’re not—”

But Gabriel holts him with a hand and two raised, soft eyebrows. “Hey, we promised. No-one’s laying a finger on Sam. Still holds, bucko, no-one’s touching either of you.”

Dean doesn’t deflate, but he does seem to back down some, practically tugging Sam from his own stool in his iron grip. “Then what is it?” he asks, deep voice quiet.

Gabriel offers another sigh of the day, and says, “Sam, you felt crappy recently? Sick, nauseous, anything like that?”

Sam’s eyes are wide on Dean, but he glances back to Gabriel and shrugs, rolling one slim shoulder beneath Gabriel’s t-shirt and rucking it up to his ear. He says, “A bit. I was sick for a few weeks, but I…I’m better now.” His eyes turn timid again, and he curls closer to his brother. “Is that what this is about? ‘Cause I’m fine now, nothing wrong or anything…”

Gabriel hastens to quiet him at the exact same time as Dean, and Castiel offers a smile and small shake of the head that Sam’s wellness has nothing to do with the two holding residence here. No matter what the ‘illness’ is.

“Yeah, I believe you buddy, it’s cool,” Gabriel says kindly. “Anything else, back pains, head aches?”

Sam shrugs again, “I always get those.”

Castiel heart demands attention as he watches two hazel eyes slim down to slits when Dean pushes a hand against the small of his back, ruching up to two thin shoulder blades, massaging, and going back down again. The alphas should learn that, the boys’ pressure points. In case they need (for when they need) calming from the alphas, they should know how to calm them, coax them into calmness. Dean’s hand is usually residing at the dip of Sam’s tailbone, so right there for the little one.

“Okay,” Gabriel appeases, nodding with a smile. “That’s okay.” He sighs, and Castiel can feel the storm rising. “Look, guys, whatever happens with this…we still want you here, okay? Not for anything other than…taking care of you, if only for our sakes. We don’t expect anything from you.” He sucks in a breath and on the exhale, rushes, “You’re pregnant, Sam. Couple of weeks.”

The air’s still for a long while as that sinks in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's informed of the pregnancy, and in our universe, it'd probably be similar to a fourteen year old getting pregnant, considering he looks about that age and he's all cute lil omega who people expect puppy's from.


	6. Stay With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but I thought I'd offer more after the last shorty...yeah...i dunno.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!!
> 
> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

This…( _oh God_ )…isn’t exactly unexpected, right? Christ, the number of times Sam’s spread his legs and taken an alpha’s knot raw was edging into the uncountable; baring a pup from one of them is anything but…( _please, please, no_ )…expected. It’s not exactly desirable, not by any stretch of imagination, but…Sam can do this. Sam’s gonna have to do this.

( _Not here, you moron—these new alphas aren’t gonna let you sully their territory with the taint of an unmated, barely matured, pregnant_ whore _of an omega, are they? They’ll kick you to the curb before you can say ‘please’, you ruined fucking bitch_ )

Yeah, he’ll definitely do this. He’s never even lived through a wet heat yet, and Dean still looks out for him ( _he’s practically still_ raising _you_ ), and Sam’s about to birth his own little pup from some undeterminable alpha _rapist_. But…he’ll do this. He will. He _will_.

( _Sure you will, Sammy. You’ll raise some poor pup, will you? Teach it the ways of the world, groom it, feed it. The perfect little omega bitch. In some brothel, right? They’ll definitely look after something as doe eyed as you no problem, hook you up with the best room in the house like_ that. _Know they will. Gonna spread your legs again, Sammy-boy, huh? You always were so good at it, always so wet for those alphas, so willing. Only way that little monster’s getting any care, that’s for sure. Hey, maybe they’ll offer you a care plan?_ Two knots a day, get pregnant again, and we’ll double your wages. Get that little stomach swollen from seed every second you can and we’ll raise that mutt for you. _How’s that sound, little Sammy? Huh, Sammy? Sammy? Oh, Sammy? Sammy?_ )

“Sammy? _Sammy?_ Dammit, baby, come on, okay? Please Sam, it’s okay, we can deal with this, right? We’ll be fine, just like we always are, gonna be awesome, just like I promised, everything’s fine now, baby, please don’t do this, _please_ …”

Dean’s distressed, he’s radiating it, he’s crying. He’s sad. ‘Course he is. He’ll either have to ditch Sam to keep a hold of these new alphas, maybe he can even mate with one—Sam hopes he can, Dean’d be an awesome mate; or he’ll get shoved back into the whore life ( _so soon? Made for it, that’s what you are_ ) following after his puffed up brother. God, Sam’s selfish. Poor Dean. Doesn’t deserve this ( _the hell did he do to deserve you?_ ) shouldn’t have to deal with it…

“Sam, buddy, hey—”

“Don’t _touch_ him,” Dean hollers, loud enough for Sam to cringe away from the sound _(look what you’ve done to him_ ) and offer his brother a pitiful whine ( _pitiful, good word; pathetic, maybe? Useless?)_ in protest. Soft clutches of cotton seemed to be bunged into bunches beneath the grip of Sam’s hands, and he wonders exactly when Dean’s t-shirt became his very own personal life-line. And his eyes are shut. Huh. Whatever, he’s not denying his body that right now. ‘Sides. There’s alphas out there. Sam doesn’t want to look at them.

A soft couple of fingers push into the tiny bundle of nerves at the base of his spine and Sam mewls in response, chittering lazily as his body’s functions slip from beneath him, but his eyes don’t open. They flutter about languidly beneath his lashes, but nothing but small threads of light weave their way through. Sam huffs at the air and gifts his limbs over to his brother, where Dean cuddles him to a ball on his lap—quite a feat on these stools, actually. Sam’s pleased with it. Proud.

“Just a wrist, bucko, I swear. An alpha scent might be good right now, don’t you think? I bet he’s guessing he’ll be kicked out to the streets, left to that pup all by himself?” ( _Even the alpha knows, the alpha knows what you are_ ) Sam frowns and dugs his head lower. He doesn’t…he doesn’t want to hear it. “Not in a million, Dean. He’s got two alphas willing to keep them both and keep them both _safe_. He should smell that, right now. How else is he gonna know?”

Maybe the alpha’s might let them back to the…facility, was it? Maybe they’ll keep Sam and Dean ( _and the mutt, you whore_ ) for…for a little bit until Dean can get a job? And Sam, once the pup’s grown. Then they can live together and maybe if Dean mated, there’d at least be _some_ kind of alpha around. No-one’s gonna want Sam, after all. Not swollen with foreign seed, and certainly not father to some bastard pup—

 _Alpha_.

Good alpha, right? Kind alpha, Sam remembers that, Sam’s pretty sure. He was kind even…even when he walked in on Sam being fucked into by Azazel. Even when Sam was some sloppy mess of an omega high on some cocktail of hormone drugs, he never leered or tried anything wrong ( _what’s ‘wrong’ now-a-days, Sammy? You’ve had ‘em all, right?_ ). He’s a good alpha. Sam can smell that. Maybe he’ll even— ( _No alpha, ‘good’ or not, would take you in now. No alpha’s gonna want some broken horse, are they? Ridden to completion, that’s what sweet little Sammy is. Finished. Completed. Done_ ) Sam whines and sniffs closer—he still smells so good—but his eyes stay firmly glued.

“Hey there, little omega,” comes a voice and it sounds like honey. “It’s okay, kitten, it’s okay. No-one’s gonna make you leave or abandon you right now. You’ve got two alphas at your back the whole way, I swear it right here, right now, no-one’s leaving you again. This is your home. This is your pup’s home. You, all of you, Dean and the pup, every single one’s gonna safe beneath this roof and tucked away from them, alright? You’re safe. Everything’s good. Everyone’s fine. It’s okay, Sam.”

…oh.

But…Sam can’t trust that, can he? Sam can’t just…he can’t just trust this new alpha’s gonna keep him safe, he can’t just shove this pup into that position. Right? But…they grew up sans an alpha. After Dad left ( _fucking sold you_ ), they didn’t even have a beta, they didn’t have anything accept Alastair’s alphaic scent and a ten year old, freshly presented omegan Sammy had revelled in that. Used to curl against him in the living room. Used to look at Dean weirdly when he’d opt for the floor instead of Alastair’s arm and the soft leather couch. Until Alastair took to the blades, of course. Until he was introduced to Azazel.

So the pup ( _fucking Jesus_ ) either grows up lonely or grows up hurting, right? That’s how it worked for them. That’s how it works for most omegas.

“Sam…please, kiddo,” Dean murmurs, lips damp sponges against Sam’s ear lobe. He used to do that when Alastair made them… _entertain_ him. Would always rub in as smoothly as he could with Sam only slicked by the spit Dean could sneak when Alastair wasn’t looking, back when Azazel wasn’t around like some virus and shoved the needle into Sam’s arm the very second he could. Even wet with slick, Dean would still press calming, grounding lips to Sam’s ear. Would whisper stories or assurances as he palmed Sam into completion on Alastair’s orders. Dean took care of him. Always did. Always will, right? Dean promised, not even an hour ago, that he’d never leave Sam. Well, Sam comes with an extra now ( _fucking hell_ ) and Dean’s gonna be there. He’ll always be there. Sam at least owes him that.

So he opens his eyes.

He was right, actually. He is currently curled on Dean’s lap, wrapped up in strong arms against a shirt Sam’s creasing to high-heavens with his sweaty fists—one hand wrapped to stroke along the base of Sam’s spine. The other tracing the curve of his hip. Sam’s head is lolled against Dean’s strong shoulder and his brother as peering down at him, wide, damp looking eyes terribly green in that vicious looking pain usually reserved for Sam hurting. Gabriel’s wrist is still hovering beneath Sam’s nose. Still smelling Good. Castiel’s staring. And Sam…Sam freaked out. Again.

Fuck. ( _Pitiful, you hearing that? Pathetic_ )

Sam gulps, glancing between all three before the heat marking his cheeks burns too brightly for him to keep it up anymore and he’s uncurling, gaze laser focused on his brother. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, and though he’s addressing the whole room, he doesn’t look at the others. Dean’s much more comforting. More stable.

Sam’s big brother rolls his eyes anyway. Beneath tear stains he’ll deny until the day he dies. Of course he’s upset. Just another mouth to feed, another pitiful little body in need of saving and keeping, coddling just like Sam. Another hindrance. Dean doesn’t deserve this. He’s not the one burdened with a new life.

( _Yes he is. That’s exactly what he is—what, are you gonna care for it? Please_ )

“Don’t, Sam,” he hisses, moving his lips back to Sam’s ear and shielding him from the alphas just across the table. He’s shaking, Dean is. Tiny little tremors Dean will also deny until his final breath, but Sam can feel them vibrating against his shoulder; the one currently pressed to his brother’s sternum. His hands aren’t steady where they massage into Sam’s flesh, and the breath huffed out against Sam’s skin is shaky to say the least. And Sam just broke down on him. Again. ( _Pathetic_ )

“This is your territory now, not just ours,” and that’s Castiel. Handsome, strong Castiel. He must be so… _offended_ by this pathetic little thing Sam’s become (become _? Right_ ). He must be disgusted. “We’ll fit the bed. The blinds. Anything else to allow you comfort, please just ask one of us. Later, you can choose out a nursery for the pup. Anything you like, Sam. This is your home now.”

“Hey, bucko, can you look at me, please?” Gabriel. Sam’s spine offers Dean’s hands a violent shiver, but he lifts his head anyway and turns it to glance at the alpha. ( _Humiliating. Embarrassing_ ) The man smiles, flicking one amber-hued eye in a wink. “It’s okay. You smell like a blushing nun, kiddo. Seriously, though Sam…I know right now this situation isn’t exactly… _ideal_. But we wanna help you. Not—” he hastens, holding out a hand to a freshly startled Dean, “in exchange for anything, alright? Outta the goodness of our hearts,” he grins. “We’ll give all of you a permanent home. Well…if you’ll let us.” He glances over at Castiel, who’s gaze is flitting around all three of them, before landing solidly on the brown folding sitting brazenly in the middle of the table. Gabriel stabs a finger at the top of it. “This,” he says, “is paperwork to determine immediate adoption.”

Wait… _what?_ Sam’s not giving it up, do they even know how hard that is on an omega? Do they even _read_? What the fuck, not in a million years, Sam’s gonna run before any alpha even tries that crap, he swears down…

“I’m not getting rid of it,” he snaps, curling back into Dean. His breath’s echoing from him in troves as he stares up at the alphas, reaching a stray hand down to his currently flat belly and stroking a palm across it. “Don’t ask me to do that, ‘cause I won’t.”

Gabriel waves both hands into the air and frowns as though Sam’s personally offended him. Sam tucks himself deeper—yeah, well, it’s his pup non-the-less. He gets jurisdiction. “No. _Jesus_ , no, we’re not asking you to get rid of the pup, Sam. We wouldn’t ask something like that of either of you, Christ.” He shoves a hand through chronic bedhead and Dean’s hands tighten minutely—enough that Sam mewls sharply at such a sudden ministration—before releasing loosely and smoothing down the hem of Sam’s shirt.

“This is the alternative to the facility,” Castiel steps in. “Sam’s underage. One of us will have to legally hold precedence over you. After your history, someone will have to sign off on Dean also. This changes nothing, just so you know. We don’t expect anything, we won’t ask anything from you in an inappropriate manner. We won’t be signing off on anything until we know for sure both of you are a hundred percent alright with this, okay? This is your decision.”

Sam doesn’t say anything ( _shocker_ ), and Dean’s fingers have started up again, dipping beneath and over Sam’s borrowed shirt and coaxing silent little chitters to vibrate out from his throat.

Then Dean says, “Otherwise we’d have to go to the facility?”

Castiel nods, “Legally, yes.”

“I swear to God, if you even _try_ to hurt him now, I’ll kill you.”

“Dean,” Sam warns.

“I get that you’re doing us a favour, I do. But he’s pregnant. You hurt him in any fucking way, I swear to God, I’ll do it.”

Maybe his words are pretty mute. After all, threatening to kill two alphas who are virtually assassins maybe isn’t the best idea after they’ve just offered a permanent place in their home. But Sam shivers all the same. Dean’s growl is still bloodthirsty thrumming in the back of his words.

Gabriel clears his throat and offers the barest hint of an amused little smile (not patronising, and Sam’s grateful Dean understands that), before offering in placation, “We won’t lay a single finger on your boy. I promise. So?”

It takes him a few minutes, but Dean does nod. And Sam doesn’t resist it.

-Ω----G----Ω-

Cas gets the blind guy to shoot on in within the day. They order the bed for next day delivery. The two little sex-kittens hide out in the study for the next a thousand hours ‘cause Castiel had the brilliant idea to ‘keep them out of the way’ so they can ‘sort themselves out’. Huh. Right. Well, Gabriel’s a strong believer in an alpha scent standing in for something else. And as for his own? It’s barely in the study. Barely a wispy little trace tucked away next to the record player; fuck all, basically. So the boys are getting all cosy and comfortable in a room not even reeking of both the house alphas and how the hell is that supposed to be healthy? They should be immersed in it. Dowsed. Gabriel volunteers.

Sam should be curled in Gabriel’s bed, let’s be honest. This new fandangled, canopy bed thing shouldn’t be installed in the _spare_ bedroom nowhere near anyone; there should be two—one in Castiel’s and one in Gabriel’s. A pregnant omega shouldn’t be making do with an omegan brother and some crappy supplement for security. He should be naked and writhing dreamily in the pillows of Gabriel’s ‘canopy’ bed with navy hangings and his scent marked against every single inch of the space. He should smell like Gabriel. He should smell like…like _pup_ , but he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. If Gabriel were truly his alpha, he’d be able to scent that on him a mile off, he knows he would. Fuck, he needs to. Sam should smell like… _him_.

Gabriel knocks on the door. “Hey, it’s Gabe. Can I come in for a sec?” he calls.

Shuffling sounds mutedly—clothing sliding over leather and roughened fabric, before Dean’s deeper voice calls out a quick, “Yeah,” and Gabriel toes in.

“Hey,” he offers, quietly closing the door behind him. The blinds beta’s still hovering about in their room (probably scenting double-omega and jerking off, the kinky bastard) and Cas said the boys don’t need any more distractions right now. _“Just leave them to themselves for a while, at least until the end of the day.”_

They’re both sat stoically on the couch when Gabriel zooms his gaze into them. Bare inches separating jogger-covered thighs and Gabriel’s unsure if he’s ever seen them so far apart since they attached descending the stairs however long ago it was. Few days? The hell, man… But, really, he doesn’t believe for a second that they were sat like that before he came a knocking. Sam’s hairs mussed to hell and Dean’ t-shirt’s ruched up on one side. Poor little bastards. Like they need to hide closeness after what they’ve been through. After what Gabriel’s seen of them.

“You good?” he asks.

Dean nods. Sam’s eyes dart to the door and back to him again, as though scoping out escape exists and Gabriel’s heart gives an almighty thud at the depressing prospect. Never have to run again. Gabriel will protect him.

“Lunch is pretty much ready, by the way,” he offers, gifting a small smile. “Blind’s almost up. Maybe you’ll sleep better now, huh?”

Dean’s fingers intertwine with Sam’s hair again ( _perfect locks of chestnut brown_ ) as though three seconds not touching was three too many. “Sleeping fine anyway,” he grumbles.

Sam was. Gabriel can smell it on him, the softness of slumber, could read him when he came trolling down the stairs. But Dean…Dean still smelt like exhaustion. Like fatigue incarnated. Gabriel can guess why. Sam has Dean—his protector, his knight in shining armour, the comfort of his life and why the hell would he need anything else with Dean curled tight around him. But the older boy—what protection does he have? He needs darkness. Solitude. Castiel.

“Maybe,” Gabriel smiles, offering the omegas a wink. “Second night’s the charm, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Sam goes into a panic type thing after being informed of the pregnancy. It's pretty similar to a sub drop, so I guess that's what we'll call it. Sammy Drops.


	7. I Will Hold On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

Fucking Christ, it doesn’t normally take Sammy this long to wake up does it? He’s slept like, twelve hours solid, _and_ he dozed out in the study yesterday afternoon, napped right there on the couch against Dean’s hip. What kind of sixteen year old squirt needs that kind of sleep anyway, huh? ( _Uh, a pregnant one?_ ) Oh, shut up.

Yeah, fine, pregnant ones. Fuck. Sixteen year old, eternally traumatised, fucked by every alpha going (and his big brother), omegan boys. Jesus fucking Christ on a sticky, stale cracker, how can this be happening right now? Of all the fucking people ‘God’ had to shove a pup into, it had to be poor puppy Sammy? He’s never even had a wet heat, for crying out loud, it shouldn’t be biologically possible!

 _“Actually, omega’s can conceive the second they present, they don’t have to be wet for anything,”_ comes Sammy’s whiny little voice in Dean’s head (okay, so he doesn’t actually sound _that_ whiny), chastising Dean for being so ‘obtuse’ or some other fancy-smancy word. He’s never actually _said_ the words. Obviously he probably would, if he’s _fucking pregnant_.

In a foreign territory. With foreign alphas. Chubby from the seed of rapists and abusers and scarred and bruised like some bare knuckle fighter. Kid couldn’t fight of a bee, for god’s sake.

Now he’s got some bastard pup making room for itself inside him, huh? All this shit he’s been through, and now he’s got life number two to make a difference for. Fuck, he hasn’t even got an _alpha_.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

Ugh, _they_ do not count. And yeah, okay, they’ve offered their home and…and they fitted in blinds that do _fuck all_ to help Dean sleep and they’ve ordered some canopy bed as a substitute for security neither of them has felt since Mom died. But what does that say about them, huh? That they’re okay with some underage omega having a kid grow up in their home? What, is it some kinda kink for them? Is this how Gabriel gets his rocks off; what, some slip of a pup swollen from some murderers offspring? He’s sixteen!

He’s _sixteen_.

He’s sixteen…fuck.

Fucking hell, Sammy.

Jesus Christ…

Yeah. A canopy bed’s gonna heal them right up. A blind’s gonna keep away this inevitability isn’t it? Great. Thanks alphas.

Dean’s spine shoots out of his fucking ass when he feels a hand curl around his hip and _dig in there_ , the little runt. Yeah, and he does _not_ squeal. Shut up.

“Fucking hell, Sammy,” Dean breathes out, managing to relax himself back against the sheets after picking his skin from the ceiling ( _and the miraculous blind, ooooh. Ugh_ ). “Give a guy a heart attack, creeping around like that.”

Only Sam doesn’t laugh to appease him. Doesn’t even huff out his trademark irritated little noise against Dean’s clavicle where his nose is currently buried; he just flexes his fingers a little bit against Dean’s hipbone and tilts his head slightly, until his full blown glare/bitch-face/‘for God’s sake Dean’ comes into view and Dean can chuckle at him. Thread his fingers through the mop that currently is Sammy’s hair.

Azazel always liked it just that little bit longer.

“You didn’t sleep again, did you?” he demands, bitch-face marked in full.

Dean scoffs at him, “I slept just fine, _Mom_ , thanks. And I sure as hell know you did, Yogi Bear.”

The little ( _pregnant_ ) bitch sits up at that, and Dean’s suddenly angled with that murderous glare full force, bare inches away. “Dean, shut up,” Sam snaps. Dean does. “You need to sleep, man, seriously. It’s not good for you otherwise.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes the kid away so he can stand up, stretch his arms above his head, and waltz on over to the closet for a new weird smelling t-shirt and joggers number two. Dean can’t wait until things start smelling right again, or at least not like _alphaalphaalphaalpha_ anymore. It’s getting old and tiring, thank you very much.

“Dude…” he sighs, throwing some thrift-store t-shirt at Sam with black bands around the short sleeves and neck line, and a goofy looking Mickey Mouse cartoon on the front. Because it’s too stupid for Dean to wear, obviously. Not because it smells like Gabriel’s-alpha and that had ( _stupidly, Sam was gonna be just fine anyway_ ) pulled Sam back to himself yesterday. That’s absolutely not the reason. Not _any_ reason. “It’s not like I’m _choosing_ not to get any sleep. I just…don’t. But it’s fine, alright? Do I look weird to you?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam snaps, shuffling himself into standing too and dragging the shirt over his head. He’s still smelling all fresh, which is nice. That hint of lemon from their shower last night complements his scent pretty decently, actually. “Dean, you smell like death warmed over, okay? You need to sleep. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, waving the kid off. Like he doesn’t know? Like he hasn’t been laying there for the last two nights knackered and pulsing out of his own goddamn brain. Like he _enjoys_ being both wide awake and ridiculously tired all in one fail swoop, huh? Yeah. Well. He doesn’t. At all. Tiny minutes of unconsciousness isn’t a substitute for real sleeping, by the way. “I can’t exactly help it, can I?”

Sam goes all quiet then, paused in the middle of adjusting Gabriel’s sweat pants around his scrawny little hips ( _not for much longer, with that pregnancy on the horizon_ ), and Dean’s huffs out a sigh, rolls his eyes and drops his own pants back to his side in anticipation of whatever Sam’s about to moan at him for.

His eyes are especially round and hazel as he peers up at Dean. “D’you think the bed’ll help? It’s supposed to y’know: canopy beds are proven to help omegas sleep, and I guess it’s supposed to be with an alphas scent, but you have me, right? Dean? D’you think it’ll help any?”

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, already bored of the conversation. He pulls his pants on quickly and then slides over to kneel and help Sammy ( _still has some growing to do, the little elf_ ) roll his own up at the ankle. Sam rests a balancing hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean presses a quick breath against his brother’s hipbone. “Kiddo, I dunno. Maybe? Though to be honest, I can’t see how shutting us in even more’s gonna help, you know? We’ll see, I guess. You ready?”

Sam glances forlornly at the door. “Yeah. Maybe…maybe we could ask them? Cas said if we needed anything—”

“Dude, what the hell are we gonna ask for? Drugs? Huh? Yeah, Sammy, no thank you. I’ll have to sleep at some point, right? We’ll just…wait ‘till then. Besides, you know, it’s not like I haven’t been sleeping _at all_. Just…not as much.”

Yeah, like Sam’s gonna believe that. Smart little lie detector he is.

“It’s gonna get bad, Dean,” he says. Then promptly starts making the bed. “It’ll get bad, and you won’t tell me it’s bad, and then…I don’t know. But you shouldn’t let it get to that stage. Not when there’s something you can do to stop it.”

Dean rolls his eyes for the billionth time and moves round the bed to help Sammy tuck in the other side of the sheets, fluffing up a pillow. “What the hell am I meant to do about it now, Sammy? Look, baby, it’s not bad. And if it gets bad, then…I’ll be sure to let you know. But it’s not going to, okay? Everything’s awesome with me.”

“Sure,” Sam mumbles, voice tainted in sarcasm. “Like you’d tell anyone if it got bad. Since when has that ever happened?”

Dean chuckles. “Since right now, okay? Dude, I’m as awesome as I’m ever gonna be in this situation. Let’s just…get on with it.”

*

Cas says they can have breakfast down in the study if they really want to (duh, no alphas down there), chill ‘for as long as you need’ while the bed guy fixes whatever back up in their bedroom. He said it shouldn’t take too long, maybe he’ll be finished a little before dinner and then they can go ‘settle in’ before they eat, if that’s ‘something you would like’. In other words, they’re supposed to go scent mark it to oblivion, right? Cas is just too ‘proper’ to call it how it is. Sam and Dean are meant to run along upstairs, strip off half their clothes and roll around in this new bed that’s probably reeking right now of the beta and alpha Dean scented in passing, currently sorting it out for them. Scenting _them_ , no doubt. Just like the blinds guy did. Dean’s surprised he didn’t pee on the sheets, for Christ’s sake.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean scolds the little rat curled up beside him, the one currently shuffling a single fork-full of crepe around the still occupied plate, shoving it through the pile of sugar and back again, lazily. Dean rolls his eyes. “Eat.”

“M’full,” he mumbles sluggishly.

Dean scoffs. Like that’s ever worked before. “You’ve eaten one. Don’t you start this again, buddy, or I swear to God, I’ll hold you down and shove it down your throat. _Eat_.”

Sam eats. And he’s decided, apparently, to be clingier today. Since Gabriel came into view as they skulked down the first set of stairs (they avoid the winding iron ones, basically because it gets them to the ground floor quicker and who the hell wants that?) Sammy took it upon himself to sigh reluctantly and step behind Dean with this timid little face—Dean hates that one, fucking hell—and cling his slim fingers into Dean’s t-shirt, wherever he could fit them. Hasn’t let go since, outside of manoeuvring his fork, and his nose is seemingly permanently attached to Dean’s sleeve. His throat keeps making these helpless little chitters and Dean’s not entirely sure if Sammy himself knows he’s the one doing it—whether it’s the Omega inside offering his upset for him. Either way, Dean pulls him closer and offers his throat.

“You haven’t eaten all of yours,” he mumbles against Dean’s skin. “And how the hell can I eat when I’ve got your neck in my face?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, smart ass? Who said I was finished, huh?” but he lets the little thing go all the same—not entirely, of course. His hand’s still wound in Sam’s own shirt, and his brother’s leg is still balanced over his. But they’ve offered each other enough room to bully the other into finishing the grub (Castiel can really cook, which is weird) so that’s all that matters.

Once they’ve finished and stacked the plates, cutlery and trays on top of one another neatly (Sam’s a weird little stickler for things like that) Dean heaves his brother against his chest when he lays across the couch and offers his collarbone as a pillow. Sam takes it without complaint.

His hair’s soft again, when Dean pushes some fingers through it, softer now after their shower last night. The kid always did have soft hair, always had it long as well. Even before Azazel. Before alphas starting saying it suited him longer, before Alastair said it gave them something to hold onto, made him look more innocent. Maybe this is one of the things Dean’s not willing to change for the alpha’s though. ‘Cause he likes it long too.

“What’s up, baby?” Dean asks quietly, once the mood seems to have calmed some.

Sam halts his rhythmic purring and peers up at him, hazel eyes wide. They blink sluggishly a few times, before they’re rolling and angling back down to his fingers, where they’re picking at the collar of Dean’s Castiel shirt. Dean’d take it off for his pregnant brother, offer his scent cleaner and unmarred by foreign alpha. He won’t though. This isn’t the bedroom, and either alpha could walk in here and judge them for it. Judge Dean for it.

“Not baby,” Sam sighs out, his breath damp against Dean’s chest. Dean nudges him for an actual answer.

Big eyes appear again, wide and helpless. Dean’s stomach drops at the look, at the tightened, roughened scent of his baby brother. “I’m pregnant,” he says. Yeah. Yeah, Dean’s not about to forget that one. “I don’t have an alpha. Don’t have my own land or…or anything that even really smells like me, Dean, we don’t have…we don’t have anything here. _Anywhere_. How do I bring up a pup like that?”

Dean tugs him closer and mewls beneath him, offering his brother his own sorrow as some kind of sickening placation. As though that solves anything. “Have me, baby brother. Always have me. And, kiddo…we can do this together, okay? Just like everything else, we can get through this one, and we’ll land on the other side with some squalling little pup, alright? We’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you, Sammy. Always.”

Sam’s throat jumps as he gulps against Dean’s pec. “You were gonna send me to the facility. They would’ve…they’d have taken it away, you know. Wouldn’t let me raise it, they’d take it away once I’d birthed it or just taken it right from inside me—”

“No, Sammy,” Dean hastens, gripping his brother’s head between his hands and raising it just enough for them to frown feebly at each other, daring their brother to contradict. “No one’s taking it away from you, you understand me? That pup’s gonna grow and…” Dean rubs his temple for some sort of defence against a brewing head ache, “and we’ll raise it together. It’ll be ours, all right? No one gets to touch it whether it’s inside of you or not, little brother, this pup is ours to keep and teach and feed…whatever we need to do, we’ll do it. I’ll keep you safe, Sammy. I’ll keep us all safe. And no facility in the world gets to challenge that. I’m not letting anyone else touch you.”

Dean can feel the slim little stomach balanced on top of him convulse slightly as tears trickle the sides of his baby’s face, pooling harshly with the dips Dean’s making with his thumbs on his cheeks, reminding him, taunting him. He’s trembling like a tuning fork above Dean, desperate, despairing little sounds escaping into the air from his throat , uneven mewls and chitters huffed into Dean’s skin. At least he can express them now, at least he’s free to have his real reaction when they’re not stuck in the watchful eyes of two foreign scented alphas or shaking from the news just hours after hearing it. Now Sam can be truthful as he sobs against his big brother. Now he can offer himself without that unfamiliar scrutiny. Now Dean can kiss the tears away from him and palm the base of his spine until he’s hiccupping with overexposure to his sensitive points, squirming against Dean. Wrapping his legs around Dean’s hips and rutting them closer together.

“Good boy, Sammy,” Dean offers his little pup. “Gonna be such a good daddy, I know you are baby, know you’re gonna be so good for me, huh? Hush little brother, I’ve got us, don’t I? Gonna keep us all safe. Gonna help you raise our pup, baby, I promise. Good pup, sshhh, Sammy, such a good boy.”

Sam’s mewling powerlessly against him, desperate against promises his omega is hardwired to believe, and in response, Dean’s own rubs up against him, drawing them closer and marking each other roughly with their scents. They’re both panting long after, by the time Gabriel knocks on the door for lunch. Sam’s off of him like a sky rocket, burying himself ashamedly between Dean and the couch when they both sit up, hiding his reddened little face. Dean rubs his feet (the things closest to Dean’s hands) and vibrates his throat in wonder to offer his brother some sort of calm. Not that it does much, him trembling like he is.

Gabriel comes in with new trays balanced one on top of the other, stinking the room out with tomato and freshly baked bread. Seriously, who the hell makes their own bread? The hell kind of _alpha_ does anyway?

“Howdy, kiddos,” Gabriel greets, manoeuvring his way inside. He deposits the trays on the stretch of couch beside Dean (opposite his distraught baby brother) and organises them properly to reveal two bowls of tomato soup and a few wide chunks of bread, sides of butter and cartons of apple juice. Easier to carry, Dean guesses. Not because they’re pups. _Not_ because they’re pups. Dean startles, frowns, and sits up when he notices two little yellow pills resting on one of the napkins. Then he glares at Gabriel.

“What are those?” he asks, pointing the damaging little things out.

Gabriel looks down at them. Like he doesn’t know they’re trying to give one of them _drugs_.

“Oh,” he says, then looks up with a frowning smile, like Dean’s being the dumb one here. Yeah, well, Sammy’s not touching any kind of weird looking pill for a second, let alone taking it, dumbass alpha. Did he really think they’d be that easy? “Prenatal’s. For Sam. We, uh, called Pam this morning, got some suggestions for this early on.” He rests his hands casually against his hips and sighs heavily, “she suggested these ones. Apparently they’re completely natural and all that crap, nothing harmful…tell you the truth I’ve got no idea, but they looked cool health wise so what the hell, right?” he _smirks_ at them. Like they’re actually…like Dean would really let his brother _touch_ them. Yeah fucking right. “You want me to grab you the bottle? Know what’s actually in ‘em, maybe you’ll have more of a clue than I do.”

“You don’t…” Dean starts, reaching back slightly for a better grip on his baby. Pushing him further away from _this_. “You don’t really think I’m gonna let Sam take some pill that you give him, do you? Really?”

“Dean,” comes a hissed out, knackered little voice, but Dean just massages his thumb against Sam’s sensitive little ankle joint, like a baby dove’s beneath his fingers, and ignores him.

Gabriel winces slightly, but smiles all the same. Right. Nice fucking try. “I’ll get you the bottle, okay? Or I’ll go grab another sealed one from the store and you can have that one; keep it with you in your room so you know me and Cas haven’t tampered with it, yeah? But, uh, buckos, Sammy here needs to take ‘em, okay? Needs to take care of that pup, huh?”

“He’s not taking those,” Dean says, because no fucking way is he. Right, he’s just gonna inhale some weird looking pills, is he? Obey the big bad alphas because they’re giving them a place to stay and food and a new bed to sleep in and they’re not cutting that pup outta Dean’s brother and shoving him into a depression so strong, he loses parts of himself. Well fuck them. They didn’t ask for their help.

Sam presses his heavy head against Dean’s shoulder and yips quietly at him.

“Okay, Dean,” Gabriel placates, taking the pills away. Damn straight. “I’ll go get another, all right? You can read the bottle all you want. Enjoy your lunch, boys.”

And then he leaves.

*

They nap after lunch, and Dean finally gets some sleep. Weirdly. Out in the stench of unfamiliar alpha like they are, but he falls asleep all the same.

Sam’s shivering once consciousness takes him again, practically burying himself inside Dean’s shirt, and for once it’s not from goddamn despair. His teeth are practically chattering, the poor little mite, and Dean pats him into laying on the couch when he stands, coaxing his brother into relaxing.

“I’ll be two seconds, okay?” he assures, stroking a hand through his brother’s hair. “Love you, Sammy.”

Castiel filled out their wardrobe just a tiny bit while they were holed up in the study yesterday, offering them more shirts stinking of alpha, a few more pairs of boxers and sweats, and two hoodies, scented of each alpha respectably. Dean’s beginning to miss jeans, for god’s sake.

It isn’t until Dean strolls on into their make-do bedroom that he remembers their little guests. Until he’s stuck in the open doorway being stared at by strange men, one wilfully ignorant looking beta, and a bulked up alpha that’s staring at him from beside a screwdriver and a length of wood. Until the alpha stands to at least six foot and goes to leering at him. Dean gulps (but that is the _only_ thing he’s offering) and stalks towards their wardrobe. Either way, Sam’s cold. He needs the hoodie.

“Well, hey there, cutie,” says the alpha, dropping whatever it was he was doing and taking one dangerous step forward. “Something we can help you with, huh?”

“No,” Dean replies stubbornly, practically whipping the first one he can grab from its hanger (blue, Castiel’s) and going quickly about his retreat. “Thanks.”

He’s not an idiot. Fuck, Dean’s lived through countless horny alphas, he’s been hanging limp from too many knots to not recognise the predatory look this knot-head’s currently aiming at him. He knows, okay? But there’s two other alphas in this house, and Dean (fuck, fuck, fuck) actually _belongs_ to one of them, whether he smells like it or not. For once, this dick shouldn’t think he has any right to touch Dean. Castiel said he wouldn’t…he said he wouldn’t make them another whore house, right? He promised that.

Dean makes it out the door. He makes it into the hallway before he smells the musty scent of the _especially_ foreign alpha behind him, before he feels a heavy hand connect with his shoulder. Before that familiar thing inside of him starts beating again and he feels like he might just throw up. Right on Cas’ clean cream carpet. Fuck, come _on_.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean says calmly, once he’s walked far enough away and turned, enough that the alpha is no longer touching him. He’s trying to be calm, okay? He’ll be calm or snappy, that’s good, great, but Dean will not cry. He fucking _won’t,_ he’s twenty years old.

“Aw, sweetheart, don’t be like that. Smell awful lonely, don’tcha?” he says, inching even closer, backing Dean until the wall behind him collides with his spine and reiterates the whole ‘trappedtrappedtrappedalpha’ thing Alastair used to fucking love seeing echo off of him, used to coax it out like tears and blood and Dean can’t do this right now, not on top of everything else, he just fucking _can’t_. “This bed for you, huh? Poor little omega, could make you feel happy, boy. Need a mate, huh? I could help you, sweetheart. Come here, buddy, gonna make you feel sweet again.”

“Get the hell away from me,” Dean says this time, relying on his motor mouth to reply for him, rather than the mewling that’s apparently fucking decided to take residence inside his throat. Great timing, Dean, really. Fucking hell, please just don’t…

“’mega, come on, beautiful. You’re not mated. I know you’re all but aching for a knot, little buddy, I could offer you a quick go, huh? Poor little thing, bet you’re already wet, aren’t you?”

Oh god…please. _Seriously, Castiel, you fucking liar, you_ bastard—

Dean’s throat betrays him in a pathetic little keen when a thick fingered hand moves to grip him through his joggers, palm at his hilariously flaccid dick like Dean doesn’t fucking have a choice and Alastair’s right in his ear reminding him that hey, yeah, he _doesn’t_ have one, little whore he is; fucking begging, huh? Pathetic. Useless. _Don’t move, my precious little hole, I’ll fucking kill him. Skin him right in front of you, make you fuck him while he cries, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Give you something up that hole of yours and you don’t give a fuck what’s getting you off do you, little slut?_

The alpha has a hand up Dean’s shirt, he’s smoothing it along Dean’s scared up stomach and Dean should be balking against the ministrations where no one ever gets to see— _not there, no one should see him there and know what he is, no one, please_ —but he’s not really _here_ anymore. Alastair’s telling him, right? His alpha, the man Dean needs to obey to protect baby Sammy, he needs to obey to keep them both safe, he’s telling Dean he needs to do something. He should listen. He should just let the alpha do whatever he needs, he should…

Dean crumples when a hand lifts his tee and the word marked there is revealed to the world.

**-Ω---- _C_ \----Ω-**

Castiel’s on his way to the study, actually, to hand the omega’s Sam’s fresh bottle of tablets—when he smells it and halts exactly where he is, frozen.

Omega in distress. Alpha. Omega.

 _Dean_.

And then he’s up the final flight of stairs two at a time because it’s coming from the direction of their new bedroom and whatever else is happening, Dean shouldn’t feel such horror from up there, Castiel’s made damn sure, he shouldn’t feel it ever…

A growl rips its way through Castiel’s chest when he begins to hear the keening ( _his Dean, his strong little Dean, fuck, he’s making those noise, it’s him, he’s distraught_ ) and despite the number of times Castiel has ran for an omega in need, he doesn’t think it’s ever been this quickly. And he never thought he’d ever have to do it for this one again, not beneath his _own goddamn roof_.

He’ll rip the bastard apart, he promises. He’ll do it, he will.

“The fuck is that about, omega?” comes an alphaic voice, the one Castiel lead to his omega’s room, the one he trusted to do his fucking job and he can see him now, he can see Dean in his grip, holding up his omega’s shirt and touching him like he has _any right in the world to_ —

“Get. Your. _Fucking_. Hands. Off of him. Now.” A fleeting part of Castiel (not the alpha, the alpha’s too busy) wonders whether his growled out demand is actually intelligible outside of a vibration of _fury_ , but most of him doesn’t actually give a shit. Some other alpha is touching his desperate, strong as hell little omega and he’s making him _keen_ for him. He’s making him tremble like some helpless little pup, he’s demoting him to that omega beneath Alastair Grey’s foot and Castiel will not have that in his own home, he won’t have Dean ( _his perfect Dean_ ) behaving in such a way in this house, he just won’t do it.

“You carve this into him?” says the alpha, and he actually has the gall to be _looking_ at Castiel whilst his skin is still making contact with Dean’s, frowning over at him in fucking _defence_. Castiel will tear his head from his body and burn him in the backyard, roast puppy Sam marshmallows and stroke his Dean against his side, whispering assurances.

“I won’t tell you again, alpha,” he snarls, stepping closer. Dean mewls and squirms pathetically, barely getting anywhere in the wide man’s grip. His cheeks are damp. His eyes are wide and reddened. “Release him. _Now_.”

“He doesn’t belong to you, _alpha_ ,” he spits back, and Dean’s dainty little fingers float up to grip weakly at the alpha’s chubby wrist, his eyes roll back and his plump lips fall open. God, something’s wrong with him, this isn’t Dean… “You are one sick fuck, you know that? Scaring him up; I’ll take him away from you, ya freak, carving up a little boy, fuck’s wrong with you?”

And for the first time since Castiel stormed the landing, he lets his narrowed gaze flicker down to where the alpha’s holding Dean’s (Castiel’s) shirt up from his pulsing little stomach and—oh God. Oh fuck, _Dean_.

His first thought is _this alpha cut his omega, he fucking did this, kill, kill_ , but actually, the word carving Dean’s stomach up look longs healed and old. Still pink though. Forever scarred.

‘TOY’. Written there in neat, jagged letters, stretched from sharp hip to sharp hip, just below his ribs, the word ‘ _TOY_ ’ is written into his flesh. Vibrating beneath its owners silently sobbing abdomen, but the letters are clear all the same. Castiel wonders idly if he might throw up. He deduces it’s a very likely result.

“I didn’t do that,” he hears himself say, but he’s not sure why he’s defending himself. Of course he didn’t harm his omega, he saved the poor thing from the alpha who did, he gave him a home. It’s this bastard in the wrong. He’s the one hurting Dean, the one shoving him back into the omega he was forced to be beneath Alastair’s rule, he’s the one _demanding_ inside Castiel’s own territory. He’s the one Castiel will kill.

“He’s not got your bite, Mr Alpha,” he sneers. “Doesn’t smell like you.”

“I’ll snap your neck, alpha,” Castiel says. “If you don’t get your hands off of the boy, I will kill you. I’m giving fair warning now, because if you don’t release him within the next second, I will kill you, and I will get away with it, you understand me? Let go of my omega. And get out of my house.”

“For God’s sake, listen to him, you idiot,” hisses the beta—Castiel hadn’t noticed him lurking until now—yanking harshly on the man’s shirt. “The hell d’you think you’re doing in someone else’s land, huh? Fucking come on, he’s not yours.”

“He’s not _his_.”

Castiel growls at him and Dean mewls.

The beta tugs him and fucking _finally_ , Dean drops from his grip. If Castiel had to force it, the alpha would be dead. Gabriel wouldn’t be pleased. And Dean would have to witness him killing for the second time in less than a week, and Castiel is not willing to allow that to happen. Not again. He’ll protect his boy, better than this. He’ll have to.

“The fuck is going on?” Gabriel’s voice rings out from behind Castiel, and he turns to take in his brother’s anger, the wall of it and the small omega tucked behind him, behind the wall. He’s trembling. Staring at Dean.

Castiel leaves the alpha to his brother. He turns to his omega instead.

“Dean,” he soothes—only approaching once he’s sure his scent has deflated from that cutthroat fury, once he’s certain he won’t traumatize his omega even more—and he bows to his knees fair inches away. “Dean, are you alright?”

His t-shirt’s still rucked up around his ribs where he’s hunched on the carpet, still proudly proclaiming his position in his old household and Castiel’s fingers are lowering its hem before he can give them permission to do so. When he glances back up, Dean’s frowning dazedly at him.

“You didn’t make Sam get rid of it,” he says, voice taut but clear as a bell. “Why? S’not your pup, not your responsibility. Why d’you let him keep it?”

Castiel blinks down at him. “Because that’s not our choice; we would never put either of you under stress like that—to that extent. Dean, we want what’s best for you.”

Dean huffs out a humourless little chuckle, and Castiel’s alpha howls for him. “Why? ‘m a toy. Nothing.”

And if Castiel’s hand moves to cup Dean’s jaw (there’s shouting going on behind them, Dean’s solid expression crumbles slightly) then so be it. And if he angles his wrist for his omega to scent, _so be it_. He’s taking care of him now. Whatever the hell that takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Sammy's all in woooaaaah subspacey land and soft and cute like a little bunny.   
> ALSO this gigantic prick of an alpha shoves himself at Dean and he Drops (we're calling it that from now on) and doesn't really get better after, so strap in buddies.


	8. I Don't Belong Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

Omicron Syndrome isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence in traumatized omegas. In Castiel’s field alone, the vast majority of the ones he’s discovered and freed into the awaiting arms of the facility have been plagued with the thing at least once during their rehabilitation; and Castiel is sure a decent few still awake at night aching for the comfort of the Den. Charlie did. Charlie _does_.

Which is why, Castiel thinks, all of this isn’t really much of a surprise. If someone as loud and boisterous and stereotype-defying as Charlie Bradbury can be reduced to the whimpering omega she’s spent her entire rehabilitation trying to disprove, then the handsome and determined omega currently trembling his way through the new bed in Castiel’s spare room  can most definitely qualify for this particularly bitter condition. As much as Castiel would hate to admit it; but even his strong little Dean Winchester isn’t above mental illness’.

“No doubt, seriously,” Gabriel insists into his cell, tapping through yet another page of Omicron Syndrome google searches on his laptop and clicking on a blue link he hasn’t already tried a thousand times. Castiel skims it for him and sighs at the identical list of symptoms that the last page declared, and the one before that, and the one before that. Gabriel is right. There really, _really_ is no doubt. And that is not something Castiel wants to be true, but there’s no denying, not anymore.

“Pam, look,” Castiel sighs, shutting the damn thing’s lid and resting his hips into the work surface where it lies, just taunting them. He ignores Gabriel’s tired grunt of indignation, snatches the phone from beside the computer and holds it up to his mouth—his words are not to be misunderstood. They don’t have time for that. Dean is…Dean is unhappy and Dean is in pain. This is not something they can risk ‘debating’ on. “We’ve seen the symptoms enough times at the facility to know, haven’t we? Charlie’s been stranded in our home, _suffering_ , for God’s sake, we know what we’re looking for and we know what it looks _like_. So please, Dr Barnes, tell us what we’re supposed to do.”

A sigh rattles its way down the speakers of Gabriel’s phone, and Castiel answers with an impatient huff of one of his own. Pam should understand, of all people. She _needs_ to understand that Dean cannot and _will not_ live like this in Castiel’s own territory, he will not have the stench of that horror tainting his walls any longer. Dean deserves a darn sight more than this _shit_ , that’s for damn sure.

“Yeah, Cas, okay,” she says finally, and Castiel’s eyes flicker to Gabriel’s as they both huff out noises of blind relief. Omegas get through this, they’ve seen it. But every endless time helping them, it never gets easier. Especially with one of their own (one of the things that _smells_ like them, smells like _theirs_ now more than ever). Shuffling sounds again over the line, and a fist curls against Gabriel’s thigh where it’s rested on his leg. Yes. Castiel definitely understands. “Gotta form here, needs filling out. Mind if I ask you a couple questions first?” Neither answer and it’s the doctor’s turn to sigh. “Formality, buckos, no damn choice. So, questions?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers instantly, replacing the cell back to the countertop and leaning onto it to lose distance. “Go on.”

“Cool,” she sighs wearily. “You first noticed the symptoms a few days ago, right? With the alpha in your home…?” A pause and a testy huff. “Wanna expand on that, Cas?”

Right, yes, of course, quicker and they can get Dean to safety, get the boy better… “Yes, uh. I found him by scent, first. He smelt absolutely terrified, and the second I rounded the corner, I saw him trembling in the arms of the foreign alpha—he was holding Dean’s shirt up to reveal his scars. I think that’s probably what triggered the boy’s reaction. He was barely struggling despite what we know of his instincts, and he was just _obeying_. He looked…” _Christ_ , “he looked like the omega we found at Alastair’s house, Pam. He looked broken.”

“Okay, Cas. That’s cool, thanks. What happened next, then, huh?”

Castiel sucks in a breath and continues, gaze fluttering to the iron stairway he can just make out before him in the living room—the path that would lead him to the boy. His boy. His darling, strengthened little boy. “I threatened him,” they ignore Pamela’s humoured breath, “and he released Dean. He fell to the floor and I went to him when Gabriel arrived, and I pulled his shirt back down. He was still dazed—back there, I think, back with Alastair. He asked me why we let Sam keep the pup, like he expected us to force an _abortion_ on the child or something, and I assured him we would never traumatise them in such a way. He laughed and told me…he told me he was nothing but a toy. Sam came over and sat beside him. He was crying. Dean barely reacted and I went over and punched the alpha, sick piece of—”

“Pam,” Gabriel interrupts, quietening Cas with a somewhat spiteful jab to the ribs with his elbow, taking the phone away and turning slightly to get his own view of the stairs. Castiel can only guess what he’s thinking; but he believes he’s pretty accurate. If his own jitters are anything to go by. “He’s been showing symptoms long before this, you know. Christ, woman, you were _there_ that first day, y’must have at least, I dunno, _suspected_ he wasn’t ‘all good’ up in the noggin’, right?”

“ _Just_ …” she snaps, and Castiel can just imagine her waving an impatient hand in the air. “Carry on, alright, we’ll get back to that. But this was when it really showed, right? When he started to really revert?”

Gabriel sighs. “Yeah. While Ali over here was defending the kid’s honour, I went over to them. Knelt down to their height, you know, seems as though they like that, appreciate the proximity or whatever. So I knelt down, stroked at Sammy for a second to gage some kinda reaction, where I stood, you know, and I asked how they were holding up.” He sighs. “Dean started up with the whining. Yipping, you know? Kept pulling the pup closer to him and growling these pathetic little noises at me, like he’s just regressed back to _ten_ or something.” _Fuck, Dean, come on._ “He wouldn’t go back in the room until Sam scent marked it again—kept checking on the scuff with Cas and the dick foreigner. Then just hid out in their bed. Three days straight.”

“You didn’t see him?”

“We saw Sam,” Castiel clarifies, speaking over his brother. “Dean has behind the canopy whenever we entered the room; Sam stuck his head out a few times to see, but Dean pulled him back. He growled if we stayed too long, so we mostly just left the trays for them on the cabinet and came back downstairs.”

“And it was yesterday when he…” Pamela leads on, and a heat fills Castiel’s cheeks as he relives it ( _oh God_ ) and remembers the flush marring Dean’s own. Fuck, he looked _extravagant_ —

“Yes,” Castiel says sharply. He pushes out a heavy breath of his own and scrubs a hand down his face. “He was in my room,” Castiel clarifies. “Naked. I was in the en suite and he was sat on the bed when I came out in a towel, knelt upright and watching me. He told me he could make it good,” Castiel can only discuss this at all because of the ridiculous number of times Omega’s have mentioned their ‘ability to make him feel good’ without clothes on as a returning promise for safety. Castiel’s not naïve enough to believe that, from Dean, this incident was anything beyond that trade off. “I believe he woke up and forgot where he was. He kept glancing at the clock beside him…I think he had an arranged time to meet with Grey, and either one of the boy’s would get punished for him missing it. He looked distressed. I asked him what he was doing, and he…” –never forget that, never in a million years— “…he startled and panicked and arranged himself into the presenting position. He asked me if that was alright. Told me he was wet, though I could clearly see he wasn’t. And I gripped his scruff to calm him to the sheets until he came back to himself.

“He started sobbing and twitching and I let him up. He ran back to his room.” Castiel sighs, exhausted. He hasn’t slept since, either. Can’t, with the scent of Dean on his sheets—the mar of his memories.

“He has nightmares, I can smell them from my room. Sam does too, but they’re nowhere near Dean’s level…listen, Pam, I think he’s gonna do himself some damage with this. He’s swapping back and forth, we damn well know he is, and he’s gonna do something bad, I can tell.” Gabriel rests the cell back to the kitchen worktop and leans his hands against it, hanging a heavy head between his outstretched arms. “Charlie’s wasn’t nearly this severe, Pam, and she started with the cutting, okay? Fuck, doctor, we’re not letting him get to that point with a pregnant kid brother to check on. I fucking won’t do that to either of them, got it?”

“Please, Pam,” Castiel tries, offering his own placation and case. “We took them on to care for them and we can’t do that without the right kind of help, you know we can’t. Please. Just give us a couple of days with it, we’ll be out of your way as soon as we can, I promise. But Dean _needs_ this. Please.”

Gabriel stares at him and Castiel understands. It’s a rare thing for him to beg; for either of them, actually. Alphas don’t beg and Castiel certainly doesn’t. But this thing with Dean; the pain digging into his skull, the flashbacks and nightmares and avoidance—it’s not good for him. Castiel vowed. He vowed the boy won’t come to harm, nothing bad will happen to him again once Castiel takes him under his wing, and Dean is officially his omega, mated or not. Well. Dean’s _his_. And he will care for him—beta begging or not.

“Christ, guys, we all told you they’d be better off staying put at the shop; hell, I warned you myself, didn’t I? You know the damn rules and you know perfectly well adopted O’s are put in a second folder compared to the facility’s lot. Both of ‘em are screwed right now; Sam’s messed to hell with that pregnancy and I won’t insult your intelligence and say that Dean isn’t fucked up with the Omicron—but I can’t just forget the rules and shove ‘em head first into a Den without serious bookings and visits to shrinks and medical exams galore. It doesn’t freaking work like that. You know it, Cas, I know you do. What do you want me to do?”

Fucking hell.

“Unless you have forgotten, Dr Barnes, both Gabriel and I are very much a part of this organisation: a _vital_ part, if you will,” Castiel says sharply. Enough’s enough. Dean doesn’t have time. “We have taken on these two brothers because you also know as well as us that in the system, they would have been dragged apart and left alone: Dean’s Omicron would be almost untreatable, and how do you think Sam would have reacted discovering the foreigners pup currently growing inside of his stomach without anyone familiar for comfort? We took them in because we want what’s best for them; separating them wasn’t it and we all knew it. We all _know_ it. But unless something seriously fundamental has changed within the last week, the two of us still put three quarters of the omegas at the facility right now where they are because we believe that’s where they belong, alright? We belong to this organisation, and by association alone—let _alone_ the boys’ own too recent history—so do they. Will you really let them stew out here, Pamela?” Castiel waits for his words to ignite an effect, listening to the soft breaths on the other line. “They need you, and they need the facility. Please. Don’t make them suffer any more.”

Once again, Gabriel’s staring. This time Castiel ignores him, focusing his gaze on the phone before him and willing it silently to simply commend him, the other line to sigh her resignation on the subject and comply. That’s what she needs to do. That’s what she _will_ do or Castiel is driving over there with the two omegas and thrusting them into the Dens himself. He will fight off Naomi herself if he has to.

“Pam, come on,” Gabe says loosely, grinning at Castiel. “Not gonna leave us to these two by ourselves are you?”

A few seconds pass and Castiel poises to dart upstairs and retrieve the two, when a heavy, agitated sigh comes through the receiver and Pamela says, “There’s a double Den free for the next few days, I’ll book it for them. You two can take the damn brunt if anyone says shit, I swear to God.” A brief pause as Castiel and Gabriel stare at the thing, contented, and she snarls lightly and says, “the hell are you still standing around for, get them here fucking pronto.”

They do.

They freaking _scamper_ for it.

**-Ω---- _S_ \----Ω-**

It’s not the right time when Gabriel walks in again, and Sam can feel his own omega freeze, like it’s stuck beneath a headlight in the pouring rain—naked and trembling. Kinda how he’s been feeling for a while, actually. Wrong. Out of his skin and fucking terrified of everything down at the core, right where his own gender matters. S’scary. Like…like Dean. Doesn’t react much behind tensing slightly. Sam wonders if he knows it’s Gabriel. Maybe he thinks it’s Alastair.

_(oh god, Dean, please...)_

“Hey, handsomes, it’s only me,” Gabriel calls, and Sam startles slightly in remembrance, darting his gaze to the shadow currently dancing beyond their new bed’s curtains. He crawls forward slowly, eyes still on Dean, gaging his brother’s reaction ( _who knows anymore, he’s wrong too, he’s not here either, worse than Sam, worse and real bad_ ) and judging it too dazed to care right now before tilting his own trembling hand forward and dusting it tenderly against the silken fabric separating them and the alpha. Not enough. Azazel would just tease his way through it and Alastair would use it as an excuse to bring out the blades again. Probably what Dean’s thinking. Why he can’t sleep since he came back shaking like a leaf from Cas’s room yesterday. _Wrong_. Sam hasn’t stopped shaking him since, sobbing over the shell of his brother.

Just numb now, really. Sparks, but…Dean’s _wrong_ and it hurts. Can’t feel it, if he tries. Can’t handle it without…you know. Dissolving. Like Dean.

( _strong Dean, Sammy, strong, wasn’t he, before you happened, ruined him and broke him like a doll, ripped him up and shoved him to the lions—_ )

Sam can’t. He can’t leave Dean out here like this.

“Howdy, kitten,” the alpha says once he’s in Sam’s full view, standing there with his hands on his hips and smirking like he does. Sam scents the air from where he’s knelt against the sheets, head poking out into the real world beyond their bed again and scenting what he needs and recognises as alpha. His omega begs him for it; rolls over and keens. Sam offers the alpha a downward tilt of his lips. His omega whimpers. “Listen, short-stack, we, uh…we’ve got a road trip to take for a few days.”

Oh…yeah. Sam knows road trips. Dad used to like ‘em—Dean loved them.

They went on a road trip with Mr Roman once. Dean didn’t talk for a couple days after The Room.

Azazel took Sam on a road trip once too—longest he’s ever been without Dean. Never been so scared either. Never gotten a headache from trembling so much—never clawed at Azazel and begged for relief.

Sam doesn’t like road trips. Never had a choice before though. Alpha’s asking. Obey.

Obedience, right? That’s good. Keeps off the pain.

Gabriel looks at him weird when Sam re-emerges with Dean’s hands clung to his own little one and his scarred hip. Maybe ‘cause they’re naked. Doesn’t matter, right? Mr Roman didn’t like clothes. Says they got in the way.

“Sam, kiddo,” Gabriel says, fetching them clothes that smell like alpha that they dress in and scent at and stand for him again and wait obediently. “You okay?”

( _nonono wrongwrongwrong_ and _badbadbad_ )

Numb, though. Sam shoves it down and snuggles into Dean’s waiting arm. Like two puppets, he thinks obscenely. On strings. Get tangled, though. Never quite right, were they?

Or rope. Mistress Abaddon liked rope. Used to cut, though, Dean used to have to pick it out of Sam’s wrists. Didn’t talk, on those days. Just hugged. Mistress Abaddon was one of Sam’s worst, he thinks, because she used to like hurting Sam’s wiener and not just his hole or his belly or his back—used to put things in it. Sam used to cry when she did that. Alastair used to watch.

“Okay, bucko,” Gabriel the alpha says. “Come on then, let’s get you both down to the car, yeah? Get you right again,” he says the last bit under his breath but not, and Sam hears him anyway. Not that it matters. Don’t have a choice anyway.

Castiel’s in the car and he waves at Sam through the window. Sam waves back absently and climbs in beside Dean, behind Cas and snuggles up to his brother’s side. Gabriel puts a seatbelt over the both of them. Doesn’t know why. Didn’t have to on the way to the clinic place, did they?

Dean accommodates Sam like always and they end up curled together and scenting bare skin or hair and tugging clothing out of the way. Sam pants against him, omega satiated with even this synthetic, practiced reaction of his brother’s—he mewls tightly against him and yips into his brother’s ear, yips his sorrow and need and loneliness.

He stops when Dean doesn’t say it. Doesn’t hug him closer right where Sam needs it and says, “Shh, baby, it’s okay, Sammy, got you, baby boy, got both of us, gonna keep us all safe and right, aren’t I?” Doesn’t even press at Sam’s back like he should.

Sam lets go of Dean’s clavicle where his brother likes him most. He tucks himself against his chest instead and moulds himself to the familiar, tensed lines. He doesn’t need to glance at his brother’s face to guess where his wide eyed, helpless gaze is pointed. Castiel’s not even looking at them—but they both know a driving alpha isn’t necessarily a safe alpha. Mr Roman was always great at multitasking.

( _it’s wrong, Sam, all wrong and bad and lonely and need to get right, please, please don’t leave him like this, you fucking need him you pathetic little—_ )

Numb. Better. Calmer.

“Shit,” Castiel breathes from his metre away, glancing back at them through the side mirror. Sam peers at him. “Dean rubbed off on him, didn’t he?” he says. Rubbed off on him? How? “Fuck. We’re lucky Pam booked the double. Poor goddamn things.”

Gabriel nods in reply, gaze fastened to Sam, face etched with a kind little smile as he talks to his brother. “Tell me about it. Kid’s worse since yesterday too. Must have freaked him out more than you meant to.”

Castiel sighs in unison with Sam, hefty breaths sucked up three times. “I didn’t mean to,” Castiel agrees. “I couldn’t…I mean, there was no way I was knotting him like that, no fucking way, but…I shouldn’t have touched him at all, I guess. Fuck. _Goddammit_.”

Yeah. Anger’s usually next.

Dean flinches from the harsh words, bundles Sam towards him and echoes out an apologetic little rumble from his throat—the noise vibrating straight through Sam and into the scent of the alphas, dispelling them and Sam mewls his own sorrow. Doesn’t work. Never does.

“Hey, hey,” Gabriel offers, voice hushed and soft and Sam’s omega’s drifting with it. “Shh, kiddos, it’s okay, it’s alright.” He’s soothing them, isn’t he? Huh. Feels nice. Makes the omega in him wag it’s tail and offer his belly, lick at the alpha’s palm. Sam just tucks his face into Dean’s Castiel shirt. “We’re gonna get you better again, alright? I know you both feel wrong right now, and I know it can’t be fun for either of you, but…we’re gonna get you good again together, okay?”

Yeah. Right.

“Are you taking us to the facility?” Sam asks dazedly. Probably. They’re useless, fuck-less liabilities now. Who the hell would possibly still want them now, like this. Broken and dirty and wrong and pregnant—

“Yes, Sam, but we’re not leaving you there, alright?” Castiel says, voice just as deep as usual, hair just as dark as it always is. Sam’s suddenly, inexplicably terrified of it. Doesn’t show it. Numb. Obey. “A few days, we’ll get you better with the others, and we’ll take you back home again, I assure you. You’ll be safe and secure and cared for, for the entirety of the trip. We promise.”

Well. Whatever.

*

Sam can smell Jo, which is weird. She doesn’t…well, she’s _never_ in their room, she shouldn’t be  now, should she?

Sam sniffs around a second and, sure enough, Dean’s own sweetly familiar scent is nestled beneath Sam’s nose—he’s safe and he’s okay, so there’s not much of a reason for the beta to be ruining their sleep now, is there? Sam’s aching and Azazel said he was gonna be there when Sam woke up for breakfast in bed up in the spare room and Sam hadn’t exactly intended on _waking up_ , so…

“Hey, Sammy?” she says happily, and there’s a freaking light all in his lidded eyes—stupidly red and obtrusive and he flinches back from it like a burn until Jo chuckles and it disappears again. Well, Dean’s not moving yet. Sam’s definitely not. “Up you come, kiddo.”

No. Why would she make him do that? Azazel must be downstairs already, she shouldn’t want him to get there sooner, not still bruised like he is and aching and trembling—

“Howdy, munchkin,” comes another voice, familiar, female…fuck. Mistress Abaddon? Shit, Sam can’t…he shouldn’t disobey her, not ever, he shouldn’t…

Only it’s not her when Sam’s eyes fling themselves open and search around. It’s not Abaddon at all, but it is someone he recognises, however vaguely, and he doesn’t think she’s fucked him or used him before. The memories aren’t exactly fond, but there’s a tell-tale blurriness in them that seems to zap back memories until it all comes into play again.

Gabriel, Castiel, clinic, Dr Barnes, house, study, pregnant, bedroom, Dean, foreigner, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean…

Shit. He’s _pregnant_.

But…what the hell is Jo doing here?

Looks just the same, too. Still blonde and real pretty and still smiling like she does when Sam’s a little confused after a bad night.

…Is Alastair back? Azazel?

“Hey, scrappy, come on now; let’s get you two inside, how ‘bout that, yeah?” Pamela says, moving slightly again and that light erupts for the second time, blinding him and shoving him back against Dean’s taut body, coiling into his still sturdy grip. Dr Barnes moves, and the glare goes. The sun, then. S’very bright. “Sorry, kiddo,” she says, stepping back when Jo ( _Jo can help, always helps_ ) advances, holding out a hand when Sam can glance again beyond the huge white spot in his vision.

Right. Obey.

So Sam grabs at the hand offered, pushing his fingers into the supplied flesh and holding tightly when he’s tugged from the safety of the car and practically blinded and singed from the force of that dumb sun. Jo’s soft when Sam falls against her, smells nice and betan and clean and familiar when she wraps him up in her grip and rubs her hands along his half-bared arms. He’s mewling within the next few moments, whining loosely against an offered throat. Feels…feels nice, doesn’t it?

Mm. Feels good.

“Yeah, good to see you too, scamp,” she says all soft like, her words murmured into Sam’s mussed up hair. “You gonna be good if we get you inside, huh?”

Obviously. Sam’s gonna be perfect if Jo just _stays_ right where she is and if that particular hand massaging his scalp doesn’t stop or move or slow, then he’s gonna be the best omega she’s ever known. Sam purrs his consent, and then they’re moving, but that’s okay. Jo feels safe and Sam knows—he _knows_ , ha—that she’d never hurt him to be spiteful. Hurts when she stitches, sure; hurts when she puts that gloopy stuff on burns, but she’s never vicious. Never. Feels good to be so sure. Feels good anyway.

“Sammy?” Oh. Dean.

“ _Sammy!_ ” he’s panicking, isn’t he, he’s gonna…he’s gonna panic and then get hurt just ‘cause Sam was chasing that feeling and _dammit_ , he wasn’t paying enough attention to his big brother and now they’ll hurt him, hurt him and—

“Dean!” Sam cries, wrenching from Jo’s grip and the safety he _learnt_ to never trust and never relinquish into, Sam knows that, he shouldn’t have just ignored it, _dangerdangerdanger_ — “Dean, Dean, please!”

Pamela’s got him, she’s holding him against the side of the car and he’s panting and oh god, Sam doesn’t think he’s breathing right, he’s red and glistening in the sun from the dampness on his cheeks and Sam can see him trembling and shaking and panicking, shit, Dean, _please_.

“Hey there, little britches,” comes another, familiar voice, and Sam’s view is obscured by a dark red shirt and…and a white button and when Sam sucks in a breath it smells like alpha and pain and nothing good, never good and Sam shouldn’t, he shouldn’t be doing this, please God, please…

“Alpha,” Sam breathes, stepping short footfalls further back—further from Dean though, screaming Dean and they’re _hurting him_ – “Dean!” Sam pushes at the obtrusive alpha because nothing else matters right now, “Get off o’ him, Dean!” but he’s grabbing back and Sam’s held away, he’s stopped from helping his brother and it hurts, he’s hurting him, “Please, stop!” he sobs, wrenching at the grip against him—“Please don’t hurt him, please,” and turns to the man, the alpha keeping him stable, he pants and grabs and cries, but he begs, “Please, please don’t hurt him, please don’t take him away from me, I’ll do anything, I promise, I’ll…I’ll make it good for you, alpha, I’ll be real good and quiet and o-obedient, I promise, just let him go, he needs me, please.”

Sam can’t see him properly from the glare of the _stupid sun_ but damn if he doesn’t know the scent, the grip holding him still and docile and Sam can do that, he can be good like that if the alpha wants, he’ll do anything for his brother, he promises.

“Sam,” he says, his thumbs rubbing too gently at Sam’s arms where they’re holding and forcing and—“Little guy, it’s okay, no-one’s touching Dean, no-one’s going to hurt him, I promise.”

He’s lying because people _are_ touching Dean and Sam can’t see Gabriel’s face properly and it’s hurting his eyes and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe, _fuck, Dean!_

Dean’s crying and screaming and shouting Sam’s name and he’s just over here trying to stare at an alpha, at the man that killed Azazel just so he could take Sam home with him—

“They’re hurting him,” Sam whines out, pushing into the grip and sucking the scent because that’s the only way air wants to invade his lungs, the only way it can right now trapped beneath alpha and a promise and the scent and Sam just _needs_ , he _needs_ so bad and it’s _wrong_ , he knows, he knows that. “Please stop them, please, do whatever you want with me or hurt me or knot me or…or tie me up and h-hit me, please stop hurting my brother, please, I—”

Fuck. The ground disappears from beneath Sam then, twists until the only thing Sam can see is a shoulder and the only thing he can feel is the alpha between his legs—leave Dean alone if they have Sam, can stop, right, they can stop—and the hands pressing into the dip of his tailbone, the curve of his sweaty forehead and his matted and damp hair.

He exhales everything when the soft yet calloused flesh of an alpha hand slips down to cover his eyes. He stops struggling in the grip metres from the floor. He twists until the fingers at his spine dig deeper and rub there, push into the pressure point and soothe him like he’s never been soothed by an alpha before, not since he was a baby and he doesn’t remember that. Feels good when Dean does it. Feels… _indescribable_ when it’s an alpha.

He feels numb again, but it’s not the aching kind. There’s a buzzing in his ears that feels comforting now and a stroke of a second hand on his back, ruched beneath his tee that feels real good. He feels limp, but stable in the hold. He feels Gabriel around him. Alpha. And it’s… _unfamiliar_ , to say the least.

“Shh, good boy,” feels good too. They’re walking now, but it doesn’t really make much of a difference. Sam grabs onto the red shirt with trembling fingers and wriggles in the grip, offering his alpha the pleasure he’s feeling right now with a loose purr into the collar of his top. Gabriel replies with a rumble of noise of his own. Sam yips in delight. “Yeah, there we go, handsome, doing real good for me, yeah? Good boy, hush Sammy, good boy.”

Yeah. Doing good.

“How’s he doing?” mutters another voice, but ‘female’ is all Sam cares to assess. He doesn’t recognise it though.

“He’s, uh, he’s stable. For the minute, anyway.” Gabriel’s voice is deep and rough where it sounds and rumbles against Sam’s own chest. Feels right. “I wouldn’t hold out much hope for the Den part, though.”

“Yeah, Pam said you can take him into one of the exam rooms, soothe him for a bit. They’re putting his brother straight in, though. Gonna try without a sedative, but we’ll see how he goes.”

Mm. Gabriel’s stroking him now. Feels awesome.

Nice to have darkness, too, the complete blackness of his soft make-do blindfold perfect for coverage from the sun. Huh. Maybe they’re not outside anymore? Sam can’t feel the wind anymore, anyway. Or the heat. Mm. Nicer in here, wherever they are.

“I’m sure they’re better off separate for a while, anyway,” says voice number three. English, which is weird. Male. Deep. Familiar? “Get them settled a bit, then get them in the Den’s, your best bet.”

“Yeah, okay. Hey, Charlie, gonna show me the room, or what?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Just down here,” they’re moving again. Sam struggles closer and Gabriel shh’s him. Yeah. ‘kay. “God, he’s adorable, isn’t he?” the female says. Could be beta. Could be alpha. Could be anything, but all Sam can smell is ALPHA. His alpha. Right alpha. “He’s the pregnant one, right?”

Talking about him though. Not a problem, Sam’s good.

“Yup. Pam says he’s only about five weeks, though, he’s not showing much yet.” A nose nestles beneath Sam’s hairline and his jaw and he grumbles it off. Gabriel rumbles in a laugh. “Yeah, you can definitely smell it on him now. Christ.”

“Hah!” female says, and she’s definitely close to Sam’s bared out left side and he’s snuggling closer to Gabriel’s centre because he doesn’t want another. Just needs Gabriel and alpha. “Got yourself a crush, huh? Wow, never thought I’d see the day.”

“What?” Gabriel laughs again. Nice vibration. “Hey now, I’d been crushin’ on you until you shot me down macking on Jo in the supply cupboard.” Another laugh. Mmm, really nice. “Naomi forgiven you yet?”

The female giggles to Sam’s left, and he was right. Feels further away now. “Aw, she couldn’t stay angry at me after I did that medical trip thing. In here, Gabe. Besides, I’m awesome, who doesn’t love me?”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” A chuckle. “So how long we got in here, then?”

“Pam says she’ll want a chat soon as she can; maybe Benny too, but he’s with Dean first.” Dean? What about Dean? Is he okay? Sam tenses, but the hand smoothes (still under his top, _fuck_ , feels good) from his tailbone to the centre of his shoulder blades and he’s relaxing against the chest again and exhaling through the sensations of…well. Alpha.

Sam barely has to shift at all when Gabriel sits down—just rests more solidly against the offered lap, his legs dangle on either side of the chair. Otherwise they’re exactly the same big duo they’ve been since Gabriel starting soothing him.

“Guess I’ll leave you too to it then. The button’s next to Sam’s foot there, so just stand on it if you need anything. One of us’ll get here soon as we can.”

“Awesome, thanks Charlie. See you later, yeah?”

“Yup. See you ‘round, Gabe.”

Sam startles at the clunk of a door shutting, but he’s simply soothed again by the alpha beneath him, coddled against a sturdy chest and hushed with these soft little noises that feel really nice rattling against him.

Sam’s not really sure how long they stay like that for. An eternity ends too soon though, because after decades of that hand stroking over Sam’s bare skin; breath being pressed soothingly against his cheek; a cover hiding everything from him and assuring his safety; a perfect body beneath him and a scent Sam could possibly die for—everything disappears when he’s pulled back again. The hands stop. The world is revealed again and it’s not fair, Sam doesn’t want to—there’s still a perfectly good neck, however, and that’s what Sam aims for. Everything’s dark again. Good. It can stay like that.

Gabriel laughs for the billionth time.

“Come on, handsome, you can’t stay in there forever. You wanna come say hi, or what?”

What. Otherwise known as: _no_. Ugh.

Sam shakes his head, coiling closer—his fingers dig into the soft fabric beneath them, tugging there until he can gain more ground and shuffle his way closer and deeper against his alpha. He smells amazing from where Sam is. So good, it’s unreal.

Sam doesn’t know what’s out there if he opens his eyes. He doesn’t know how else he’ll be hurt. He really doesn’t _want_ to know, either.

Hurt too much, the last few years. Sam can’t take any more.

He can’t. He knows it.

“Hurts,” he insists, ducking until his nose is hidden beneath the collar beneath it, every lungful of air smothered by the scent of alpha and Gabriel and goodness.

Gabriel stills and Sam’s whining again.

“Sam? Hey, kiddo, what hurts? You hurt yourself, huh? Come on, Sammy, you’re gonna need to tell me what’s going on right now, ‘cause I can’t help you if you just stay buried like that. Please, Sam? Kiddo…”

Oh, _fuck_. He doesn’t…he really, _really_ doesn’t want to be uncovered again and he doesn’t want to see where he is, or smell the taint of the facility or talk to ‘Pamela’ or ‘Benny’ or see the female Gabriel was talking to on the way in. He _doesn’t want to._

But that’s never stopped anything before, right? So when Gabriel pulls him back again, Sam goes without resistance. He angles his eyes to red shirted chest before him and he rests his hands to cling to one another on their combined laps. He flinches when Gabriel pushes hair from his eyes. He forces his breath to soften from the panicked pit he can feel filling at his stomach and when he huffs in one huge breath, he pointedly ignores the scent of clinical soap and cleaner. He ignores everything. But Gabriel.

“Good boy,” the alpha says, and Sam’s huffing again. Not the same in reality. Not when everything’s falling back on top of him again and burying him beneath it all. Not when…when he doesn’t know where Dean is. “You gonna tell me where you hurt, Sam? I could help you, you know.”

But Sam couldn’t tell him, because Sam doesn’t know himself. He could point at his chest or his stomach from the pain everything’s just forcing into him; he could point at his ribs or his scars of his burns and say he’s never released from that ache. He could point at Gabriel and say scenting an alpha and being soothed by one hurts more than anything because he knows he can’t have it and that’s worse. It’s bad. And Sam needs more control.

“M’fine,” he says instead. “Where’s Dean?”

Gabriel smells sceptical, and Sam can see the frown on his face when he flickers his gaze up like a chastised pup. But it doesn’t matter. He needs Dean. Dean needs him.

“He’s perfectly safe, Sam, he’s fine. You’re fine. But we’re gonna get you both better again.”

“Right.”

‘Better’ isn’t a notion for them, not anymore. There’s no going back from what they’ve been through or seen or screamed from. Sam knows that. And even though they’ve never spoken about it, Dean knows that too. Everyone does. That’s why they’re hurt so much. Useless. Why not?

Sam whines when a sharp rap on the door sounds, and Gabriel pulls him close again. It’s not the same though. And Sam can feel that panic more than he should. He can feel his omega pushing for the reigns.

The door opens but Sam doesn’t look. What’s the point? He can’t stop anyone from hurting him. Can’t stop the pain, tries often enough, hurts more.

“Hey, Pam,” Gabriel says.

…doesn’t matter.

“Hey there,” she replies, and Sam can hear the sound of fabric ruffling, flattening, maybe, as she sits down a few metres behind Sam. All he can see right now is the wall. Cream. “Hey, Sam, how you holding up?”

Sam shrugs. Doesn’t matter.

A hand rushes through Sam’s hair, pushing into his scalp and he shuffles slightly, gaining traction, but otherwise does nothing. It feels nice, sure. But at what cost?

Used to feel nice sometimes with Alastair, back at the beginning. Used to feel amazing when Azazel focused on him instead.

They trusted Mr Roman. Look what happened.

Sam doesn’t realise he’s trembling until he feels the third hand touch him. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the panic swells again and he starts begging. He doesn’t realize he can’t breathe until Gabriel hauls him upright quicker than Sam’s head can take and holds his head in soft hands.

“…please don’t hurt him, want the pup, can’t have it, please don’t take it or hurt Dean or hurt it o-or—”

“No-one’s touching the pup, Sammy, no-one’s hurting you, or Dean, or anyone, I swear to you, alright, it’s okay, Sam, it’s okay—”

“Fuck you!” Sam cries because he’s just… _fed-up_ of those bullshit promises and lies and…and fucking… _alphas_ that smell good and fuck him bloody and tie him down and hurt him, hurt Dean and _lie_. “You’re lying! All of you, that’s all you do, is lie and lie and promise, but…but hurt me and Dean, you promise and you say you care but you don’t and you want to see us _shaking and begging!_ You want us on the floor and screaming for you! Fuck you. No! Get off me, get the hell off!” And Sam doesn’t care if he falls to the floor or the ache stretching across his tailbone where he’s curled from the thud, he doesn’t fucking care because fuck them, with their bullshit and their deceits, he’s still a fucking person, he’s still living and breathing and he can still feel pain as much as the next lying alpha, he _can!_ But he can’t…he _can’t_ , not anymore. Not without Dean. Without the pup. He won’t do it.

 He’s whimpering on the floor by the time Gabriel’s curled around him. He’s retching by the time another alpha (foreign and big and he’ll hurt _so bad_ ) walks in and he’s puking up his breakfast when he touches Sam’s shoulder. He’s screaming when the alpha pulls him up, hushing him in time with Gabriel and Pam. He can’t think. He can’t breathe.

He freezes when the doll’s pushed into his hands. Right weight and size and it feels right, Sam doesn’t know how, but it does.

He shouts out a choke when the needle buries itself into his arm.

He’s scenting the doll and looking up at Gabriel when everything turns blurred.

He’s saying, “Please, alpha, can’t…can’t do it anymore,” when everything turns black.

**-Ω---- _D_ \----Ω-**

They throw him in the room without Sam and they don’t listen to him when he screams for his brother.

He waits, shouting his baby’s name.

He cries his terror when the giant of an alpha walks in and smiles at him.

He whimpers when the threat says, “Howdy, brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Here be mentions of depression via Charlie, cutting, and a made up disorder that features real life, triggering symptoms, so beware.   
> Also, both boys are mentally ill right now it all but admitted into this weird mental hospital type thing (the facility) and this is carried on for a while yet, so just so you know...
> 
> Just to make it clear, abortion in this world, with omegas, is something that rarely willingly happens; as they form an attachment early on and separating them from that would be seriously shitty on them.


	9. It's A Fucking Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah, another short chapter because I cannot get back into writing properly and it's tortuuuure!! 
> 
> Enjoy, though :)
> 
> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.

“This is your fault.”

The heat echoes deeper into the room—filling it, threatening and Dean can’t _breathe_ , it’s…it’s _choking_ , he can’t…

 “Mom…” he tries, but his voice is a barely there croak—besides the fact that she clearly doesn’t care what he has to say, she clearly hates him beyond anything because it is his fault, he knows that, it’s all Dean’s fault, oh God—the smoke hurts. “Mom, please,” but it never makes a difference. Dean doesn’t blame her.

The sharp _thwack_ of a noise fills the air, ringing it into the denseness already occupying but it makes enough fucking space for Dean to go crumbling to his knees, for his hand to dart up to his throbbing cheekbone and for him to sob out his most pitiful, _“please!”_ yet. It doesn’t make a different because it never has and it never will and she hates him, she hates him so much it _hurts_.

“You don’t speak to me!” she _screams_ at him, that golden hair like a halo as it flies from her skull (her beautiful, furious face) and whips against the dull grey smoke; the flames billowing around her. “You know what you did,” she hisses. “You know what you’ve done.”

Dean nods in despair, his lip trembling around his crumpled features, his hands clutching at his hair because he doesn’t think he can handle this anymore, not from her. Not from his one good memory of pups and blonde hair and love before Dad lost it. Not…not without Sammy.

“You should have been an alpha, Dean,” she tells him and Dean knows. He knows that. “You should have saved him. You should have saved me.”

Dean nods his head again, curling lower to the ground out of some base, pitiful instinct that makes her snarl her disgust in blatant hatred, her hatred for him but nothing Dean does can pause him in his motions when he needs to protect himself from the fire surrounding them both, the flames and that throttling smoke. It wraps around his throat and he can’t breathe.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, but he knows it’s not enough. He should have been better. He should have been stronger. Now he’s nothing.

“It’s too late. You broke him.”

Oh God…Dean _knows_ that. He knows he ruined his baby brother, his _baby_ , the one peering up at him with gigantic eyes as the fire burnt it all down and those hands that grabbed for him from that charred white blanket—Dean broke him. Dean…Dean _fucked_ him. That baby boy that had everything and nothing at all because Dean couldn’t give him his life, he failed, he failed everything, everyone.

“…Dean…?” and there he is, that precious pup of a thing. God, he can’t be older than twelve—with that high pitched voice carving its way into Dean’s gut, big hazel eyes trembling as they blink up at him from behind Mom’s nightie, tiny hands like baby-bird’s wings as they grip onto the fabric. That mop of hair that Dean could spend hours grooming into a perfect little disarray with that tender body beneath him, vibrating his purrs. Bruises. Blood staining his jeans. A black eye. Ribs broken. Ass bleeding because of Dean. Because he pushed into him. Because he broke him. Because he couldn’t fix him.

“Why, Dean?” he asks timidly, and that last bit of something inside Dean dissolves into nothing and the tears fall without mercy. His limbs give out. Kinda like Sammy’s sometimes do after Azazel’s finished with him; when he had to see the state of Dean after a night with Alastair or Mr Roman; Sammy’s knees trembling when he came stumbling down from a night with Abaddon. His shaking little figure when Dean held him close, still damp from his brother’s own come. Still bleeding from the puppy-tightness of his hole. Still a pup. Dean could be hanged for that. He should be.

“Why’d you do it, Dean? Fuck me.” The beautiful thing ducks behind the charred remains of his Mommy for a second, peering out from the edge of her skirt and frowning in devastation over at his brother, his rapist big brother that was never any good at anything. “Hurt me, Dean. I asked you to stop, right? I-I asked you not to do it because I hurt so bad but…but you did it anyway. And you _enjoyed_ it,” he spits, accusing, darting back again when Dean whines out his sorrow. He didn’t…fuck, he didn’t enjoy it, he’d never enjoy hurting Sam but he _came anyway_. He came inside his sobbing little brother still stained by his own blood and he dared touch him after. Taint that pup with his _filth_. With his _come_.

“Mommy,” the pup whines, peering up at her with those big hazel eyes. “Mommy, why’d he do it?”

“Because he’s sick,” she says simply. The monster’s gone now. Her golden hair hangs softly down her shoulders again and she’s smiling pleasantly down at her perfect son now, palming a hand through his hair. _Good_ , Dean thinks. _Sammy needs her, he needs her bad_. “He’s a sick little shit, aren’t you, Dean?” and he nods. She’s right. Of course she is. She nods with him and smiles and that feels nice. She agrees with him and that feels good. “No son of mine,” she shakes her head, Dean shakes his own; curling lower into the rafters beneath him, watching the flames grow in his peripheral vision. Inching closer to Mom and Sammy. “Wrong little thing. Always were. Useless.”

Yeah, Dean’s usel—

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _completely_ useless, Mary,” comes another sickeningly familiar voice and he swims into view across the room, his leather-souled shoes clicking against the floor as he steps closer to Dean’s family and he should protect them from Alastair, from the monster and he’s leaping to his feet and darting closer…

But Mom’s laughing with him. And…and Sammy’s grinning; turning away from the relative safety of Mom’s dress to leap into Alastair’s arms—suddenly seven again, all slim and pink and perfect—and nuzzle tightly against his neck.

“He’s good to carve,” the alpha says and Dean throws up. He tries to aim but in the end nothing he tries to do ever works out how he planned, and it ends up all over him, in his hands on his jeans and his Mom’s eyeing him with blatant disgust.

“Mom…” he tries again, but nothing. She can’t even abide him. She…she _hates_ him.

“Messy pup,” Alastair chastises, hooking Sammy up onto one stray hip as he steps close again, bare inches away now and he kneels down, Sam still tucked up against him, he kneels inches away from Dean and he sneers at him. “You didn’t fix anything. You’re a sick little brother-fucker, aren’t you, huh? I mean, look at that face,” and Sam smiles shyly before ducking his face away. “How could you hurt that?”

“You hurt him,” Dean says pointlessly—his voice a bare wreck. “You raped him before he was old enough, you…you let Azazel drug him and Abaddon tie him up and traumatise him, you bastard, you—”

But Dean doesn’t finish that because he knows. Because Alastair’s leather-soled shoe is across his throat again and Dean can’t breathe because Sammy’s cheering him on. Because Mom’s pressing a kiss to Alastair’s cheek and ignoring her son. Because…because Dean’s not worth it.

Because everything. No one needs him. No one wants him. What’s the point?

The airs fogging, then. Misting up before his eyes and the sweet relief is mouth-watering, perfect until—

Until nothing. Until blissful, agonising _nothing_.

And then everything’s just… _black_.

**-Ω---- _C_ \----Ω-**

Castiel finally convinces them to subdue the crazed pup of an omega a few agonising minutes after he throws up all over himself. He’s been trembling violently for the better half of an hour, for Christ’s sake, he’s not exactly about to heal from all of this himself, is he? Castiel and Benny manage to hold him down for a few soul-destroying seconds, but nothing helps Dean’s terrified expression until the needle is plunged into the crook of his elbow and the content’s emptied, his heart can finally relax some, and he doesn’t suck in breaths like they’re the last he might ever take.

Dean hysterical, even in slumber, is…not a sight Castiel enjoys witnessing, he can tell you that much. Those noises he’s never been subjected to hearing Dean make had echoed the air around them; permeating even the divide between the Den and the viewing room and Castiel…he’d thought any omega’s whimpers and whines would be painful. But listening to Dean? Indescribable. Agonising. He’s a _pup_.

So he sits with Dean, despite his better judgement, when they finally settle him into an arrangement of soft limbs and heavy breaths because the slumbering omega inside of him could do with the scent of an alpha—sense-depriving Den or not.

The thing is…maybe the Den wasn’t such a good idea—not so early on in Dean’s time here. The design of the room—of all the Dens in the facility—is to draw the problem _to_ the omega, forcing them to deal with it head-on and take it how it is, offering them as much support by way of coddling cushions and canopies and low-lighting as possible. The Den’s finish it, and they finish it quick. They help, they really do, but…Dean’s different. Dean’s… _Dean_.

A knocking sounds for a split second, and Castiel glances toward the light-blocking, outside-locking door as Anna walks in, red hair piled into a lazy bun atop her head. She smiles loosely as she takes a perch on one of the many beanbag chairs dotting around the small, dark room; sat just opposite where Castiel is slumped beside the comatose omega, brushing stray fingers through his hair.

 “Nightmare?”

Castiel nods. “He’s been getting them a lot, recently.”

Anna nods her own agreement, settling deeper into the chair and offering quick glances towards Dean—and some petty, insatiable part of Castiel wants to shield him from her. From her bitter words and accusations of things that Dean could never have helped.

But he doesn’t. He all but ignores her.

“Omicron, then,” she says.

Another nod from Castiel.

She sighs haughtily, leaning forward again to peer closer up at her younger brother, eyeing him knowingly for a second before rolling her eyes and pointing them to the drapes of fabric donning the ceiling; the dull glow of fairy lights hidden by the drapes.

“Naomi’s not happy, you know.”

Castiel sighs this time.

“I’m sure she’s not. Should I be surprised?”

“I told you, little brother,” Anna says smugly. “Taking them home isn’t protocol. They don’t have a right to be taking up space here right now.”

For God’s…Castiel growls low in his throat and pins the alpha to her damn beanbag cushion because he is fed up of ridiculous, ill-advised accusations for them trying to do the _right thing_ , instead of simply dragging these two underage omega’s into their beds and being done with them. It’s ridiculous.

“You know what, Anna?” Castiel snarls under his breath, because although Dean isn’t likely to awaken after his sedative, his omega will still feel the anger of an alpha and he never needs that again. “Shut up. That is exactly what’s wrong with this system: both Dean and Sam—a pregnant, _unmatured_ omega—are clearly under the effects of Omicron Syndrome, and considering their background and their all too recent past, they should be under medical care. You know why we didn’t want them here. You know what they would have been forced through; dragged from each other just because of some rule that is keeping them from the care they need right now. You are ridiculous, and as for Naomi…you can tell her that Gabriel and are quit if these two children don’t get the care they need. Now go.” She stares in stunned silence but enough is enough. “ _Go_ , Anna.”

She shoots into standing and listens to him, for once, when he snarls her away from him and she scarpers from the door with a resounding, satisfying _thump_.

It is…utterly ridiculous. They are underage omegas. They’re haunted by visions of their past—a past that ended barely _two weeks_ ago—and now they are being discriminated against because their guardians didn’t want them separated and left to the wolves.

“Do you’re damn job,” Castiel mutters, though loud enough for them to hear in the microphones of the room, because the reason they came into the business in the first place was to help omegas. To help mated pairs and abused people because they had nowhere else to go. Right, because Sam and Dean have a damn _town_ full of people waiting for them. It’s ridiculous and Castiel is seriously getting fed up of it.

**-Ω---- _G_ \----Ω-**

That damn doll stays wrapped in the kid’s slim little fingers the whole way back to the Den corridor—his little button nose carving out a place for itself in Gabriel’s collar bone where he’s nestled and these tiny, _adorable_ little mewls keep erupting into the air and holy Christ on a damn cracker, it’s not fair. He really is beautiful, isn’t he though, huh? Gorgeous. Adorable. _A. Dorable_.

“He’s not the first of ‘em to chuck,” Benny points out casually (nice conversation starter, _really_ ), wiping the damp cloth he seemed to materialized from thin air against the soft skin of Sammy’s cheek to wipe away anything left over from his episode—brushing it dry with his sleeve. Sam sniffs at it, follows it as far as he can in the alpha’s grip, and Gabriel is not jealous. He’s _not_.

“Oh yeah?” Gabriel says slowly.

“Mm. Dean went into some sort of state, I guess. Think I gave him a fright, to be honest—”

“A recurring theme,” Charlie points out, rather helpfully (honestly) if you ask Gabriel.

Benny just chuckles. “Anyway, worked himself up so much, he puked all over the shop. Cas got ‘em to subdue him before he did himself some damage, but…this is gonna be a tough road for these two. You sure you can handle it?”

Gabriel glares at him. “Trust me, cowboy, I can handle it.” He peers down at the mop of a thing beneath him. “Gonna have to, for this kid.”

Benny chuckles again, closer this time, sneaking a peak over Gabriel’s shoulder to get a better look at the mite. “Well, they’ve got looks on their side, I’ll give you that one. Soft little thing, in’t he? Well, you know, when he’s not screaming at’chya.”

“He is soft,” Gabriel says, because, uh, the whole screaming thing? Totally warranted and not Sammy’s fault at all. He was scared and he was cornered…hell, he _is_ scared and he _is_ cornered. He deserves some screaming rights, come on now. “When he starts nuzzling, man,” fucking _orgasmic_ (or not, totally not’s fine, that’s cool) “he’s perfect.”

“Fucking _total_ crush, dude, you’re whipped,” Charlie says smugly. “If that kid found out how tightly he had you wrapped around his pinkie he wouldn’t need any kind of treatment—hey, Jo!” Aaaand, she’s gone. Literally, actually, because seconds later Jo’s being wrapped up in omega-Charlie-mate and they’re both full on _purring_ into each other’s shirt collar enough so that it’s getting kinda weird, actually. Dumb mates.

“Wait a minute…” Jo barks suddenly, voice already far too accusing for this time of day (uh _, midday?_ ) and she’s storming up to Gabriel and the kid in his arms, glaring at him like he’s holding a dead body and not a pup of a thing with a doll wrapped in his grip, all snugly and perfect and Christ, Gabriel wants—“You drugged him? What the fuck d’you that for?”

“Hey now,” Gabriel says, frowning and warning her to back the hell off. “You didn’t see him, trust me. He’d have hurt himself.”

“You still didn’t have to inject him, fuck…didn’t you figure by now that he hates needles? Like, burning hatred and _terror_ for the damn things and you just _stuck_ him with one? You fucking idiot.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Benny’s the one who did it.” ‘Cause he is. Technically.

“Thanks, brother,” he replies, rolling his eyes. “Dean’s out too, if you didn’t know.”

“Oh, for fuck’s…” but the rest is muted by the corner she storms past, leaving her out of sight and as far as Gabriel’s concerned, out of mind. At least until the pup wakes up again. When those gigantic hazel eyes go all round and scared and he starts bawling again and remembering that Gabriel had just stood by and let another needle be pushed into his arm without permission.

Just another day at the office, right?

Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck- _fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGs:  
> Dean has a nightmare about MAry and Sam and they have to sedate him.  
> Following Sam's drop Gabriel's a possessive lil beasty.


	10. I Don't Wanna Rest In Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not back to normal for the boys yet, but just a bit more comfort?
> 
> Enjoy a longer chapter!

_Shit_ …it’s dark, when Sam scrunches his eyes open. Not pitch black, but close—that dim kinda light you get when you don’t turn the switch up all the way—like dawn or twilight or something.  It’s annoying as hell, actually, and he’s flinching from it before he can register much else; tucking his head under an arm that he can still move (much to his appeasement) and cuddling up against the softly textured sweatshirt he most definitely wasn’t wearing before (slightly worrying) that’s encasing it. It’s warm enough. There are blankets all over the place from what he can tell without actually looking, and his head must be resting on at least, like, _ten_ throw pillows. It’s soft, when he shifts slightly, then slippery against another kind of fabric—soft again when he runs his hand out to search.

Right. One hand’s searching around him, and the other one’s…clutching at something. Something soft, too, but…squidgy. Not like a piece of blanket, although it could be a pillow. Shape’s kinda weird for it, though. Bit firmer maybe as well. Huh. It’s oblong, when Sam grabs tighter (pressed to his chest like something precious, which is dumb), and it extends, kinda, when he feels along the whole length. One big, chunky centre and five protrusions, mostly different shapes. Two button shaped things at the round parts—

Sam gets bored of the whole guessing game thing pretty quick, actually, and he’s blinking his eyes open—prepared for the offending onslaught of light when he does—to stare down at the thing and play it at its own stupid game…yeah, whatever.

Someone’s turned the lights down, which is weird. Where it was a warm orange-y colour before, it’s now kind of yellow—darker even still, but not dark enough that Sam can’t see the drapes once his eyes open. The curtains hanging from the ceiling like some sort of Indian or oriental tent, or something; fairy lights, cushions and blankets and beanbags…it’s weird. Not that’s it’s not, you know, actually kind of nice, but the whole thing’s just a little bit… _weird_. Christ. It’s just a little alarming, maybe. Freaky, considering the last time Sam was awake he was panting beneath Azazel and he seriously must have passed out, which wouldn’t be the first time—the bastard does like to push the boundaries in bed, that’s for sure, Sam didn’t even—

No. No, the last time he was awake…it wasn’t with Azazel. In fact, Sam hasn’t fallen asleep in his spare bed for a couple weeks now, he hasn’t even seen him because…because he’s dead. Right. Sam’s watched the blood drain from his throat, hasn’t he? He’s seen the alpha’s brains blown from his head.

Okay. So the last time he passed out…no Azazel. But his arms aching in that horribly familiar way—obviously just a dream. Happens, sometimes.

No Azazel, so the last time must have been with Dean, right? In that bed upstairs, near Gabriel’s room and the study. Dean was acting weird, though…no. Not there, because Castiel and Gabriel drove them somewhere, and—

He drugged Sam.

They _drugged_ him.

Fuck. Fucking hell, not again, not right now, please, please, please—

But Sam’s not slick (thank fuck). He’s just as dry as he usually is when he zips into sitting, shifting just enough to tell that he hasn’t left any embarrassing leakages on the mattress and silky blankets beneath his ass. Okay. So the drugs weren’t for slick…what the hell were they for then?

He’s not achy, so when they knocked him out they didn’t just do it to fuck into him—his jaws not throbbing either and the only thing he can taste in his mouth is that slightly metallic tang of blood, so no alpha come. Huh. He was freaking out, right? He puked, so maybe that’s why they changed him…he’d been screaming.

Because…because…

Because of Dean, right?

Because they’ve taken Dean.

_Please, God…just, just please let him be okay? Don’t let them have hurt him, please, he’s in it bad, God, please let him be okay, he needs to be okay so he can help raise the pup and find himself a mate, God, let him be happy, please—_

“Didn’t peg you as the religious type, brother,” and Sam’s scampering backwards at the too loud, sudden words—throwing himself against the far canopy (a sturdy wall behind it, _ow_ ) and shoving his body into its folds; damn load of good that does, hiding behind a near-sheer piece of fucking fabric when there’s a man out there who’s—Sam sniffs at the air—a fucking _alpha_.

That’s never fucking good.

 _Shit_.

God, not _now_.

“Nothin’ to worry your socks about, pup, I’m staying all the way over here. How’s that sound?”

Sam… _knows_ that voice, right? It’s already soothed him once…

The big alpha. The one that fucking jabbed him in the first place—and when Sam peers out, it fucking _is_ him, it’s the alpha that shoved that stuff into him and…and _soothed_ him, touched him and Gabriel had just let him, god _dammit_. Fuck. Fucking _hell_.

“You…you drugged…me,” Sam finally gets out, staring round the shade of the curtain—keeping the rest of his body safely ( _yeah fucking right_ ) covered by the dark fabric, the Thing still clutched in his grip held tightly, securely to his chest. No time right now to figure out what it is.

The big alpha sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets—wincing slightly over at Sam as he shrugs his shoulders up to his ears and down again. Sam frowns up at him from his bed.

“I did. Apologies: I know you’re not exactly a fan.” Of being drugged from an injection? Yeah, not _exactly_. “We just needed you down for a little while, before you could go and do yourself some real damage. You definitely look better now though, don’tcha?”

Fuck him, that’s not the point. Bastard.

“Where’s my brother?”

The alpha chuckles. “Dean? Funny; that’s the first thing he said to me, too. You must really care for  each other, huh?”

Sam frowns up at him, incredulous—he shuffles slightly until he’s on his butt again, instead of kneeling. He tucks his knees to his chest and shuffle-kicks himself further away.

“He’s my _brother_.”

“Yeah, pup,” he says. “I know.”

Sam watches him closely for the next few seconds—eyeing each step the man takes towards the side’s row of padded stools, slumping into one on the opposite side from Sam, so he can still keep his own eye on the omega. They don’t speak. They just kind of…stare.

Christ. What’s the damn point, then?

“So where is he?” Sam prompts.

Benny raises his brows, “On the other side of that wall, actually. He’s as right as rain, Sam, don’t worry.”

Silence, again, and this time Sam lets his eyes wander—attention still mainly on the threat, of course—and he glances along the strings of fairy lights just above the bed. That’s what’s lighting the room them? Yellows and oranges. Kinda nice. Pretty soothing, Sam guesses.

It’s by accident, really, when Sam glances to the bed. His eyes seem to just be skittering around; dodging from the piles of sheets to his curled up toes…but then he looks at his knees, covered by crisp, pale blue trousers, with a point of flesh-coloured fabric jutting out from beside his chest—his stomach. He frowns, realises it’s the Thing he opened his eyes mainly to look at, before folding his knees just that inch further down to discover what the hell it is that he’s been coveting. It’s…

A doll.

Like…a child’s doll. Soft, like Sam first deduced, and…naked. Not particularly realistic, considering it’s made of fabric and stuffing, but it has a small thread mouth curved into a thin smile; closed eyes and a small button nose; a tiny tuft of orange hair protruding from his head. The legs are loose and they hang from its tiny bare body in the same way it’s arms do—it does, sort of, look like a slumbering baby. It’s feels like one, even though to be honest it really doesn’t. But it kinda feels…good? Smells good. Feels…right? Yeah. Feels right. Like Sam doesn’t wanna let it go.

He glances up at the now smiling alpha.

“You gonna name it?” he asks.

Sam scowls at him. “It’s a doll,” he whispers in defence, peering down at its small smile again before tucking it back where it was, between his knees and stomach, though this time he keeps one hand pressed tightly against its back. He’s not _naming_ it no, but…it’s his now. He should probably try and keep it safe ( _yeah, good luck with that_ ).

Silence again…awkward eye contact whenever Sam dares to glance up. Every time he does, though, the alpha’s staring straight at him—brows raised again as if to say ‘well?’. Sam doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to be doing here, to be honest. If the alpha wanted to fuck him, he would have done already, right? Or he’d at least have got Sam to strip…maybe asked him to play with himself or something. But not. They’re just…silent.

“I wanna see him,” Sam says finally, voice taught. “Dean. He needs me.”

“You’ve heard of Omicron Syndrome, Sam?” the alpha asks, apparently ignoring that Sam had even spoken at all. Fucking dick…Sam shakes his head anyway. The alpha smiles and continues in that drawl of his, lifting and threading his hands to rest his head back against them, “Your brother’s looking like he has it, kid. Ah, don’t worry yourself,” he says at Sam’s frown, “he’s already improving. If you both keep it up, we can move you into the same Den.”

“Keep what up? I want to see him.”

“He wants to see you too, brother, believe me,” he chuckles. “But right now, you two just need a little space. Soon as we’re done talking, I’m gonna leave you to that ‘pup’, if that’s something you’re okay with. You’re gonna have one o’ your own to coddle soon, puppy. Might wanna get in the right headspace for it.”

 “Dean…” Sam insists, staring at the pink and green-covered wall that the alpha said Dean was just beyond—wondering whether if he stared hard enough he could just see through it. Walk through, have Dean back where he belongs. “He’s doing it with me. Need him. Please.”

The alpha sighs once more, leaning forward until his elbows rest solidly against his knees, and he says, “I know this ain’t exactly something you wanna hear, puppy, but…” another sigh, “this pup? The one growing all safe and sound inside your belly? It’s yours. Not Dean’s. And don’t get me wrong, brother, that boy’s gonna do everything he can to help you along your road; but you’re that things daddy. You’re gonna birth it; nurse it, raise it. You’re gonna be a strong little thing, I can tell, but you’re not gonna be able to do all that properly without some kind of… _nesting_ instinct.” He smiles softly. “We can help with that, here.”

“I can—” Sam tries, but that cloudiness is edging again and none of it’s clear enough. “I can do it. Screw you,” he whispers, ducking beneath his knees. “I can do it.”

“Hey now,” the alpha says, frown marking his face. “No one’s saying you can’t. In fact, I think you’re gonna be an amazing little dad, yeah? That pup’s gonna be the luckiest thing in the world, I know it is.”

“You don’t know me,” Sam huddles further back, edging towards the safety of the corner. “Don’t say that.”

“Naw, puppy, I don’t know you; not too well, huh?” he’s all smiley again and it’s edging on old. “But I know Gabe. I know he thinks the world of you, and your brother. Hell, Castiel has every faith that you’re gonna pull both yourself and that pup through this, no problems—so you know what? I’ve learned over the years to trust those two when they talk omegas. And they believe in you like crazy, little puppy. Trust me on that.”

They…believe in Sam? In _Sam_? … _Why_? He’s been nothing but weak around them—nothing but some sour, poor little omega with lists of issues miles long and a serious tendency to freak out over the dumbest of things…they don’t believe in Sam. There’s no damn way.

“Don’t believe me?” the alpha says. Sam ducks his face. “Aw, you will. Soon as that pup comes out, an’ you have it all wiggling in your arms, grinning from ear to ear, you’re gonna remember what ol’ Benny said about the two alphas at your side. You’ll see, brother. Promise.”

Another bout of silence, _Benny_ shooting Sam this little half smile whenever he plucks up the amount of gall it takes to glance over at him—taking in his dark trousers and white Henley…he’s wearing suspenders? Weird.

“What’s…uh,” Sam starts, clearing his throat. He figures there’s little point just sitting, right? Not when everything’s edging on…fuzzy. When sleep sounds real good. _What the hell kinda drugs did they use?_ “What’s O-Omicron Syndrome?”

Benny grins at that one, and Sam tucks himself in again. “You heard of PTSD, right? Soldiers coming home, traumatic experiences?” Sam nods slowly. “Well, Omicron’s pretty similar, actually. Lemme, uh…okay. So, with Dean…he started getting flashbacks, didn’t he?” Another nod, tentative this time. He’s not really eager to discuss Dean like that. “Thinking he was back in that place—bouts of anxiety, fear scent heightened to crazy…anything ringing a bell? I bet he’s feeling guilt like no-one’s business—‘bout you, himself, his family. Omicron…” he appears to think it through, squinting his eyes. “Omicron puts everything to the back, but in a way that buries itself into your biological set up. Hyper-arousal, flashbacks…it’s like everything is happening, but not. Puppy, it’s hard as hell to explain, but that’s what these Dens are for. It sucks, this thing, and being trapped up in one of these is even suckier, but it’s how we know to solve it. It halts the syndrome fast and hard.”

“Dean’s…”

“Dean’s okay now.”

Now. Okay _now_.

“What happened?” Sam whines.

“It hit him,” Benny shrugs. “Pretty hard, I think. But he’s still sleeping right now, far as I can tell. Cas’ with him, he’s doin’ fine. Both of you are.”

Sam blinks up at the fairy lights for a second, fighting the urge to just… _drift_. “Do I have it?”

“A slightly milder version than big bro, but yeah. Mostly with you, though, we’ve got the pup to worry about. How it’s messing with your hormones—being around Dean right now isn’t good for any of you. Dean can smell the pregnancy on ya, he feels wrong with it. Guilty,” guilty…’bout what? Dean’s always good. Awesome. “Having your brother panicking how he was, it’s creating the syndrome where it wasn’t before, and it’s putting stress on both you and your baby.” Mmm. Dean was kinda scary, right? Made Sam feel wrong. “You can go back to him the second you need to. The second it’s good for both of you, I promise.”

“Mmm,” Sam hums. The lights are real pretty, actually. Like stars. Or, um…or fireflies. Ha, haven’t seen one of those in too long, right? Dad used to catch ‘em and put ‘em in a jar.

“Setting in again, huh?” Benny’s voice is long gone. Far, far away. “Good puppy. You nest to your damn hearts content, you hearin’ me? I’ll grab you some more blankets.” Ha, _more_ blankets? Sam grins into the one now at his cheek. Mmm. Yeah, Sam can full on make a nest. Maybe some clothes too, right? A nest of smells and maybe he could have Cas and Gabe too, if they get to stay there. Pup would probably appreciate that. Sam would. Yeah. “Get some sleep, little brother.”

…and Dean would like a nest in a room like this, with Sam to curl against—it’d be like the forts they used to make in motel rooms when Dad was out, only they’d have better scents to play with, _more_ scents and in a couple months, they’d have a pup to rest with and coddle and soothe and everything’s gonna be awesome.

And Sam goes to sleep, for the first time ever, dreaming of his future. And a squirming little pup.

**-Ω---- _D_ \----Ω-**

Dean flinches with the knock on the door, scuttles back to the corner of the room when it actually opens, and sure as hell doesn’t relax any when Castiel comes back in. The alpha had said he simply went to go check on Sam. For two hours? Right.

“Can I come in?” he asks, perfectly polite. Dean hates him.

“Already are,” he grumbles.

The damn alpha pays his sour tone little attention, clearly, because he’s moving in already and perching himself down on the stupidly coloured rug a bare few feet away from Dean (who’s exuding fuck the hell off, dick-head), crossing his legs.

“Sam?” Dean prompts.

“Fine. He’s sleeping.”

Annoyingly, he doesn’t speak again for a few seconds, and neither does Dean. Apparently staring is now their best way to go about it, once it’s clear extending discussions of Sam are officially off the table (again. Asshole said if he went to go check on the pup they’d have to _really_ talk and what bullshit is that?).

Not that they’ve exactly spoken much since Dean first woke up after the, uh… _nightmare_ , but the staring thing? Kinda weird as, dude. Then again, he’d blinked his eyes open—with a clearer clarity than he can remember feeling in _days_ , thank God—all dazed like, and he’d had an alpha with dishevelled black hair and these dumb blue eyes stroking long fingers through over his scalp, so apparently they’ve crossed _that_ line without Dean knowing. Score one for creepy Castiel.

Another few awkward seconds drift by, before the man seems to remember something, and he’s reaching a hand into his back pocket with a face on like he’s playing operation. Two seconds later, Dean has a bag of skittles thrown into his lap, and an alpha smiling over at him like he’s just made some kind of achievement. _Right_.

Dean grabs the bag of candy anyway. Fiddles with it for a second, before saying, “What, am I on a diet?”

Castiel grins almost shyly, which is seriously dumb and stupid and for _fuck’s sake_. “Of skittles?” he chuckles into the back of one tanned, slender hand—somehow managing to make the look less dumb and more… _fucking stupid_. Dammit. “No. that would defeat the point of a diet, I think. They’re from the vending machine. I thought you might be hungry.”

Dean nods, one eyebrow raised. “Feeding the prisoner, huh? Gonna get yourself in trouble,” he rolls his eyes.

Castiel frowns like he seriously did not get the joke (shocker) and he leans forward slightly, tilting his head in that way he does, before saying, “You are not a prisoner, Dean. This really is for your good.”

“Dude,” Dean scowls slightly, tucking his whole left side up against the wall and canopy, playing with a stray thread from the gold one. “We’ve already had this discussion, remember? I still don’t wanna talk about it.”

Castiel leans back and nods when Dean glances his way again, smiling slightly once he has Dean’s attention. “Can we talk?”

“I wanna see Sammy.”

Another sigh. “Dean…not yet. You’re still under the effects of the syndrome, it’s not good for either of you right now. Or the pup.”

“How the hell do I know you’re even telling the truth? He could be dead. Fucked raw on a breading bench, all I know,” Castiel flinches, which is good. “I don’t fucking _trust_ you.”

“I know,” he says sadly, and Dean doesn’t feel guilty about that for one tiny second. He _doesn’t_. “But for now, you might just have to take my word for it.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed. So, can we talk? I went to see Sam for you. You promised, once I did that, we could…”

“We are talking,” dumbass.

Castiel smiles that mini thing again, tilting his head to his chest. “So we are. Dean…I do understand,” Dean scoffs, “Not entirely, but I understand more than you might think. Coming to me, last night. Please don’t think I blame you for that, or—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean hisses. “I’m under that Omi-thing, right? Didn’t know what I was doing. Flashback or whatever. Had nothing to do with you.”

“I’m sure it didn’t. But I don’t want you thinking that it meant something to me, or that I’m blaming you for anything, because I’m not. You weren’t in your right mind, and that’s okay. It’s alright.”

“Nothing’s alright, alpha.” Dean sighs, turning further. “You don’t know.”

“…what don’t I know, Dean?”

Dean huffs in a sigh, but he doesn’t let it out for a good few seconds. Just lets it stew in his throat, constricting. Perfect.

“I was,” he says on the exhale, “meant to be an alpha, you know? Planned for it. Dad could ‘a killed me when I went into heat, I swear…I would’ve saved Sammy, if I weren’t this. If I wasn’t…” fuck, “ _this_.” Dean scoffs into his knees, staring a hole into the comforter closest to his toes. “Alastair wouldn’t have taken us if I were an alpha.”

“You couldn’t possibly help your genetic makeup, Dean,” Castiel says, voice taking on a soft growl Dean doesn’t even flinch from anymore. It’s the big one he needs to worry about. “Alastair…he isn’t your fault. Omega or not, no human being deserves such treatment—”

“I fucked him, you know,” Dean says, because why the fuck not? Maybe he deserves to know. Know that the omega he now legally owns is nothing better than a sick-ass brother fucker. Dean doesn’t look for the alphas reaction, though. He doesn’t have the guts. “He’d beg for me not to. Scream at the top of his lungs until Alastair scarred him. Burnt him. He’d make me do it dry, until he couldn’t feel his legs. So, uh, congratulations, Cas,” Dean laughs bitterly—catching in his throat. “you scored one hell of an omega.”

“Hey,” he says, voice stern—and when Dean chances a look up at him, he’s closer than he should be; knelt on one knee barely a metre away now, and it isn’t until a stray, warm thumb presses against Dean’s cheek that he realises he was crying. Until a neck finds its way to Dean’s face that he realises he shoved it there. Fingers clinging into a blue shirt, sobs breathed into a pale throat and it’s back again, isn’t it, that burning bewilderment, Alastair’s words hissed into his ear, the poker seared into his skin and it’s hurting and wrong and—

“Please!” he sobs suddenly, “Please, Cas, I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m…I’m,” he has to catch his damn breath, “I’m sorry! He was a pup! He was just a kid and I raped him! I fucking raped him and I couldn’t save him, I didn’t do anything and, and I broke him, Cas, I ruined him! I’m sorry, please…please, Cas, I’m so sorry. I need…need bad and I’m sorry. Please…please…”

They’re lying down, Dean thinks. Softness encases him when he can register it all again, a stern body pressed up against his, a chest vibrating with words Dean hasn’t been listening to for however long…

“…not your fault, Dean, do you understand me? He _forced_ you. He raped both of you, you have nothing to feel guilty over, that bastard deserves more than what he got, I swear to God, Dean. Hush, little one, it’s alright, good boy, you’re such a good boy, Dean, I have you, there we go, shh, good boy, good boy…”

“Cas?” he whispers.

The alpha sighs sadly, rushing a hand through Dean’s hair. Dean nudges into it as the wave cascades again. “Yes, Dean?”

“M’tired. Sleep?”

“You don’t have control over yourself right now, Dean, and that’s okay. Sleep, omega. I’ll keep you safe.”

Yeah, well. Guess they’ll see about that, huh?


	11. If The Fight Becomes The Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for explicit chapter warnings, which may include some spoilers.
> 
> Oh my God, guys, this isn't even a late update, this is like...half a year later. I am a terrible author. Officially. Have an extra long chapter in compensation, please :)

The drive from the facility to the clinic isn’t a particularly long one, but it’s not exactly enjoyable.

Gabriel’s got the windows cracked just a little despite a slight September chill; music a soft lullaby in the background, spouting something about maniacs and dancing on floors…Christ, Sam doesn’t know. But the alpha himself is miming along in confidence, his lips mimicking the lyrics beneath these dark sunglasses, fingers tapping at the worn steering wheel beneath them. He’s…he’s relaxed and chilled out. He’s, uh, he’s…comfortable. And he _smells_ like it.

Jesus. This isn’t fair, is it? This is full out cheating.

“You wanna pick a song there, kiddo?” he says suddenly, jerking Sam’s gaze back up to his face.

The road’s pretty deserted, really, with actual mountains as their backdrop as they drive towards them, so the alpha looks pretty self-assured to turn from the tarmac and aim his grin to Sam, hair fluttering in the harsh breeze from the window and… _no_.

Sam shrugs, shoulder reaching all the way to his ear. “Don’t really know many,” he replies.

“That’s okay,” Gabriel says instantly, head turning every now and then back to the road, but it’s like driving, navigating this hulk of old, blue machinery (that Sam’s pretty sure is a Mustang, by the way, just wait until Dean gets a load of it), is something unimportant, something… _secondary_. And fuck Gabriel, but…it’s been like this for a while now, like…like Sam’s _important_. More important than everything else, including driving a vintage Mustang towards _mountains_. Fucking hell. It’s so not fair. “Gives us a clean ol’ slate.”

He’s grinning again, all wide smile and damn _aviators_. He must know. He just freaking must.

Sam squirms against the blue leather beneath that pitch black gaze that could very well be pointed out the passenger window, but Sam knows. He knows exactly where the alpha’s staring. And it sure isn’t at the _road_.

“So, bucko, how ‘bout it, huh?” he says absently, turning his gaze ( _stare_ ) from both the road ahead and Sam to go fishing around in the glove box, his elbow every now and then brushing Sam’s shin where he has his legs curled up against him. Gabriel doesn’t acknowledge the burning sensation of the brush, but Sam does. He feels it like a spike and it _hurts_. It hurts like he _needs_.

Sam inches away. Gabriel, again, ignores him. Sam whimpers out this pitiful little noise when Gabriel retrieves a CD and holds it aloft enough that his fingers brush Sam’s, and he just exaggeratedly grimaces at the damn thing and shoves it back and Sam…what is he even supposed to do, huh?

Fucking Christ, this is in _alpha_.

An alpha who he’s stuck in the car with, _alone_ , for the first time since Dick freaking Roman and Sam knows not to trust these guys, he’s fucking spent enough _quality_ time with them.

Jesus, Sam’s stuck in the middle of nowhere in a _car_ (who the fuck cares if it’s an old muscle car; Dean’s not even _here_ ) with an alpha who…who makes him…makes him _need_ like he never has before and this isn’t fucking normal, Sam’s been raped and tortured, he’s been abused and here he is, pining like so doleful little pup over a man he’s seen _kill_. He can’t do this. No. No he fucking can’t.

Sam whines like a wounded freaking animal when Gabriel’s hand actually comes into contact with his knee, his palm practically fucking caressing it and no, _nonononono_.

Gabriel’s talking but it’s white noise to Sam now, it means fuck all.

“ _Please_ ,” he says and it erupts as a whimpering sob and he needs Dean. He just…he needs his brother. “Pull…pull over.”

The car stops all but instantly, swerving to the right so Sam’s practically pushed into the alpha’s shoulder—his seatbelt zips back into the car, the door swings open and Sam is throwing up his earlier breakfast of waffles and eggs onto the dusty side of the road and Gabriel is patting his back. Murmuring voices into the car’s interior. Soft words and soothing noises. Doesn’t soothe Sam though. Sam’s, uh…well, Sam’s preoccupied. God, it hurts.

The hell is wrong with him?

“…s’okay, kitten, we’re doing okay, there we go, sshhh,” comes his voice, once the static seems to have evacuated Sam’s ears enough for the alpha to at least make sense again, to come in clear. “Sam? You good?”

It had all damn well started just about the second Sam awoke from passing out again, once Benny the giant had left with a pile more of blankets and what looked like a dishcloth that Sam wrapped around Doll’s limp form. Gabriel was there, reading a book. Sam had startled back and crawled like a beetle, throat making these embarrassing little whimper-whine hybrid things (not dissimilar to what he’s sure he’s making now)  and the alpha had smiled. Like he does. Just smiled and dog eared his book and held his hands aloft, head tilted, and he waited for Sam to come back to himself and calm the fuck down. He had, of course. Gabriel just started talking to him about this damn book like they were in book club in high school together and for the next couple hours he didn’t stop. He didn’t even say ‘spoilers’ as he retold the entire length of _Carrie_. Sam’s read it but _still_.

And he’d stayed, when Sam ate his dinner, picking at the fajitas until they were little more than open tortillas and smeared out BBQ chicken, peppers and onions dotted around the tray. Gabriel chuckled, as Sam put them back together with a grumble. He grinned when Sam glared.

And then he just…didn’t leave. He didn’t leave when Sam went into a fit and started dragging the fairy lights from the walls, demanding his brother back, clawing at the wires and curtains. He didn’t even stop Sam, didn’t lift a finger to deter him when he shoved himself into the alpha’s space and growled, snarled and threatened with his hands in the man’s collar. He didn’t react beyond staring sadly up at him, holding him calmly when he’d worn himself out, stroking back his hair and brushing tears from his face when he’d started to sob. He did fuck all. And he didn’t give Sam back his brother.

The next day, he turned his back as Sam bathed himself in the make do bath they’d dragged in (a tin or coppery thing full of bubbles and cloths that barely fitted a sixteen year old omega). He spoke the entire time, but he stood, right in front of the camera they had in the room (that hadn’t gone down well, but Sam was too damn exhausted) to “give you some privacy, kiddo,” and he hadn’t moved until Sam asked him for help into dragging the new shirt they’d given him over his sodden body and sopping hair. Gabriel had laughed, towelled his torso off a little while Sam was stuck with his hands in the air, unseeing, before tugging it down and patting him on the shoulder.

He napped while Sam had his lunch, eyes wearily on the alpha the entire time. He slept with his arms above his head, legs splayed and mouth open and that, right there, was what draw that whole crapfest to Sam’s attention.

Because that flutter of…of _something_ inside Sam’s chest, it wasn’t just platonic, it wasn’t on the same wavelength as the marching band that resided beneath his sternum for Dean. More like a triangle, if anything, a miniscule _ting_ that was sure as hell loud enough for Sam to take notice. For Sam to panic a little over.

He’d…crawled closer, sat on his heels for a minute and waited like an obedient kitten (ugh, _his_ fault) for the man to do _something_. The man smelt…different. Hell, he’d always had a not-terrible scent about him, but before then, it was all ALPHA and nothing but runrunrun comes from it, but now…he smelt… _nice_. Like, this indescribable scent that everyone has, but the alphas back home—or hell, back at _Alastair’s_ , they’d all smelt the same, of harshness and bitterness and _dirt_ when they fucked him, rutted at him, but now. Now, Gabriel is, uh…he’s different. And that thought right there, is fucking traumatising.

It’s what made Sam whine a little when Gabriel woke him up the next day, this morning, holding up a pair of canvas shoes and jingling his keys in Sam’s face, but otherwise made him comply, obey when Gabriel had coaxed him out to the car with mute promises of seeing Dean the second they get back.

It’s what made him turn the second he’d buckled himself into the Mustang to stare at the alpha, side pressed against the leather seat, knees propping up his chin, just watching the man with his aviators and his music and his hair blowing in the wind.

It’s what’s squeezing Sam’s empty stomach and forcing dry heaves from his throat.

“Bub, there’s nothing much left to go there, you nearly finished?” Gabriel says, that unsure humour colouring his voice, both hands resting casually on Sam’s body, either at his back or his bicep. “I think I’ve got some water left in the trunk, you want me to grab it?”

Sam nods slowly, spitting the last of whatever this foul smelling shit is out onto the tarmac of the road, offering a tiny inch of a whine when those hands leave him bare again and he hears Gabriel leave the car.

He’s slow in coming back, takes hours on end before he’s squatting down before Sam, artfully dodging the puke between his feet and offering up half a bottle of water.

It’s warm, when Sam grabs it, but better than nothing. He downs it in almost seconds, eyes squinted where they eye Gabriel over the plastic, and the man’s watching him back, making sure he drinks it all, tilting it slightly when he doesn’t.

 _Could be drugged_ , Sam’s hind brain supplies.

 _Good_ , the rest of him says. _Chance to get back to reality_.

“Good boy,” Gabriel says, mouth tilted in a soft grin, taking back the bottle and throwing it onto the back seat. Sam refuses to acknowledge the shiver that passes with the alphas tone, but thuds himself back into the seat anyway. “You wanna tell me what that was back there?”

_I think I’m in love with you._

Fucking idiot, it’s not _love_. Lust, at best, but Sam’s known this man for what? A matter of weeks, if that? He’s trusted him for a matter of days, which in itself is so fucking stupid he can’t even begin to imagine what Dean’s gonna say when he inevitably finds out. Love is ridiculous and is not what’s happening here.

Sam…Sam’s intrigued by him?

No, that’s not right either, it’s more than that. Sam has a pull, towards this man, towards his scent and he wants to _touch_. Wants to curl into him and sleep for an eternity. Wants to…try more. To watch his face twist into agonised pleasure as his knot swells inside Sam’s channel. Maybe feel an orgasm of his own writhing atop the man, wants to—

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s gagging again. Spitting into the space between Gabriel’s legs. Watching tears mingle in with the bile, a khaki sleeve moving to wipe across his lips. Feels Gabriel’s hand soft and warm in his hair, fingers dancing until they can press softly at that pressure point along the nape of his neck, allow him to practically fall forwards into the alpha’s waiting arms.

Like limp noodles, his limbs. He finds he doesn’t really care.

“Atta boy, there we go,” Gabriel mutters, lifting Sam into his arms once more and manoeuvring him to the floor, onto the grassy bed beside the roads edge and away from the puke. Sam ends up in the man’s lap, being rocked back and forth, tucked into a solid neck, legs curled around his waist. “There’s my good boy, huh? Sshhh, sweetheart, you’re doing so good.”

Sam’s crying, obviously.

He’s not right, he really isn’t. Not right in the head.

“I, uh,” he starts, gulping, choking. Gabriel runs fingers down his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for that?” Gabriel chuckles kindly, hefting Sam even closer. “Nah, kitten, we don’t say sorry for things like getting sick. It’s not exactly your fault, is it?”

 _No, it’s yours_ , Sam wants to say, wants to hit him, call him names, call him out for wanting to fuck Sam like all the others, but…he doesn’t. Obviously. In fact, he opens his mouth after a particularly wet breath, and when his lips touch down on Gabriel’s throat, and when his tongue gets pressed against the chilled skin there, well. He doesn’t exactly back off.

Jesus Christ, he tastes just as fucking good as he smells, holy crap.

What. Is. Life.

“Whoa there, kitten,” he chuckles, dodging out of the way from Sam’s lips, inciting an irritated little whine. “Least let me buy you dinner first, huh?”

…Right. Inappropriate. Or not, really, considering that taste is better than Jo’s flapjacks or her fresh cookies with chocolate chips that burn your mouth. And his scent beats fresh air, rain on tarmac, _freedom_ , and it’s not far from the sucking relief Sam feels when Dean’s near or at his own throat. Sam’s read enough books at Alastair’s library, he remembers old lessons taught in schools, whispered about in playgrounds. He knows what _mates_ are.

Sam pulls back, eyes wide, blinking dully up at this man he’s curled onto. This alpha with the scent and _taste_ and quirky looks that Sam could stare at for the rest of his days…and he knows.

And he’s not the only one.

“You _know_ ,” Sam whispers, tone accusing.

Not that he can blame him. It would have to take a bigger person than both of them, apparently, to be able to put aside the baggage an omega carries. The memory of him covered in slick, being pounding into and sobbing pitifully. The fact that he’s _pregnant_ with another’s pup. Yeah. Sam can’t exactly blame him for denying it, can he?

He scampers up, after that. Walks slowly to the car, steps over his own vomit, crawls into the seat, buckles up, slams the door, and retrieves Doll from where she’s somehow ended up in the foot well. He understands when Gabriel doesn’t mention the whole “You _know_ ,” thing. He shrugs when the man asks him again about music.

The don’t speak until the vaguely familiar one story building comes into view and Gabriel parks them both this time in the back parking lot, walks with Sam towards the building. Even then he simply says, “Best go in the back way, kiddo. Come on.”

And Sam comes.

*

“Gabriel!” comes this freaking _screech_ of a noise, the girl at the counter all but throwing herself into the desk in an apparent attempt to get closer. She’s grinning in a freaky sort of way, eager and somewhat frightening even from a beta, and Sam jolts backwards all the same, nearly tripping over Gabriel’s shin. The hand just above his coccyx holds him somewhat steady though, keeps him moving towards the weird girl with the Joker grin, keeps him obedient and docile and melting. Man’s already learned his points.

Why bother?

“Becky, my little weirdo,” Gabriel grins, leaning forward against the counter. Sam shies back. This chick is _seriously_ weird, and at least they can damn well agree on something. “You got us signed in?”

“Sure do, Mr Novak, sir,” she salutes, all but wheezing in her eager nod, braces glinting in the fluorescent lighting. Sam isn’t having any of this, seriously. His hand clutches at Gabriel’s jacket sleeve in compensation as he moves away—‘cause this is daytime now and there are a hell of a lot more people floating around than last time they were here, and Sam’s not drugged to hell right now. So he’s putting himself behind Gabriel and peering around his arm. Safer. Seriously.

Fucking _especially_ when Becky-whatever seems to zoom in on him and her Cheshire cat grin _grows_ , if at all possible, and she says, “And this little cutie’s Sam, right?”

Gabriel nods for her, but he’s smiling down at Sam. Compensation for her, Sam hopes. Better be.

She freaking reaches across and flickers her fingers at him, faced all smushed up and making noises at him like he’s _two_ or something, she’s damn well seconds away from blowing raspberries and Sam _will_ attack her, he doesn’t care.

Gabe bats her hand away, rolls his eyes. All in good humour, but it makes her stop, chuckle a little as she rubs her knuckles, wave them on with the same squished face as the alpha leads them back to the room with the fish murals and ceiling constellations. Damn weirdo.

This room, like the lobby, isn’t exactly as empty as it was on that day, over a week ago, longer, Sam can’t really remember. But it’s rows of chairs are filled now, and although their scents can’t be detected over the air system thing, there’s no denying that at least half the people occupying this room are omegas.

Which is…odd, really. Sam supposes it’s not odd for the clinic to have as many omegas as there are right now, but for Sam…it’s been a long while since he’s been in a room with so many others like himself. So many others, he’s sure, that have horrifyingly similar backstories to his own. Jesus. It’s…well, it’s startling.

“Sam?” Gabriel prompts in that stupidly wasted patient way of his, his hand back at the base of Sam’s spine to nudge him along, push him further into the room. Some wide eyes turn to look at them, omegas softened by experiences like himself, timid and generally shying into the alphas beside them.

A girl’s bruised like Sam could sometimes be if he was ever delirious enough to refuse, or an alpha simply enjoyed ruining his face.

One boy, Sam can see, is missing an eye, replaced by a stretch of scars and burns creeping into his light hairline, all placed on a devastatingly handsome face. His one eye catches Sam’s, widens a little until he’s just scowling back at him, pushing his feet until he’s backing up into an alpha’s solid grip. The woman startles slightly from a conversation with another alpha across the carpet before she turns an upside down kiss to the boy with a warm, welcoming smile when he tilts his head all the way back for it. She hugs him closer, continues her chat. He comes back to glaring.

And Sam…Sam decides Gabriel’s jacket is a good a place as any to dart for so he damn well does, wrestling the soft fabric into his grip as he finally complies and actually follows the man to the back of the room, towards some emptier rows of seats.

People turn and stare as they begin to walk—or at least more wide eyed gazes join the ones already on them. Omegas of all ages—some as young as about thirteen, if that, some reaching into their late thirties, forties—are among the mass of bodies, and every single one of them are accompanied by his or her own alpha. Sam guesses it has something to do with “legal precedence” thing the alpha brothers have going on with Sam and Dean that makes them legally _owned_ after being retrieved by the facility. He also kinda wonders if any of them are assassins, like his.

Probably not. Heh. That’s kinda cool.

“Come perch with me, yeah?” Gabriel invites, patting a plastic seat beside him once he’s sat, grinning up at Sam. He sits, of course, for lack of anything better to do, and he tries to ignore the round of stares he’s still receiving from surrounding people, mostly omegas, and especially the ones in the row just ahead of them. Sam avoids eye contact. Better that way.

“Sammy!” Gabriel suddenly barks, and Sam’s hackles rise like _that_ and he flinches, startles, and scuttles until he’s on the next chair over before he controls his wide eyes enough to stare, suddenly terrified, at the alpha beside him.

But the man’s smiling, which lowers Sam’s heart rate a little. He’s also not looking at Sam, which helps, but doesn’t explain much until Sam follows his gaze and…freezes.

Not entirely. The shakes start a few seconds later.

“Hey, buddy, I haven’t seen you in God knows how long, how’ve you been?” Gabriel bursts, shifting to the edge of his seat to get that inch closer to the brunette, familiar grin stretching his face, eyes crinkled in _joy_. He’s so happy to see…but the boy’s alpha is…

Jesus fucking Christ.

That’s it, then. It’s only a matter of time, now, before Gabriel’s smile turns feral and he turns on Sam, turns to ravage him, rip the puppy from his belly, fuck him raw and bloody. Like all the others.

Like…like Crowley.

And sure, he never fucked Sam, never fucked Dean to his knowledge, but he was friends with Alastair, he watched both of them get fucked, get tied up to the banister and left there overnight, legs trembling from the blood dripping from their holes. He’d roll his eyes and laugh and hug Samandriel closer to his body, press a kiss to the boys hair. He wouldn’t do _anything_. He was as bad as the rest of them and Sam needs to get out, right fucking now.

The doors swinging open, a nurse or something—a blonde woman in pale purple scrubs—walking through with a clipboard and Sam can make it now, if he runs—

“How’s…fuck, _Sam?_ Kiddo, hang on a second!” and that’s the last Sam hears because he’s bursting through into the main lobby, ignoring the weirdo-girl when she shouts out her, “Hey!” after him and the glass doors, they’re opening for Sam, for his freedom and he’s through them in seconds, lunging himself into the sunlight and throwing his body to the right, towards—

A crowd of people with…picket signs?

They, uh…they look pretty angry, actually. Smell it. Uh oh.

There’s a gaggle of noise when they spot him, swarming towards him with their angry faces and cameras and words and _shit_ , Sam’s not—

“What’s your name?” they scream, shoving a mic into his face, swarming around him in a circle.

“Why are you running?”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Do you need to get back to your alpha?”

“Did they _murder_ them?”

And it’s an endless barrage of unanswerable questions until Sam’s blindsided by them and stunned in the midst of flashing lights, bodies pushed into his, camera lenses blinding him.

He can’t…he can’t breathe.

“You’re the fucking reason my Isaac was taken by them, pathetic little _fucks_ like you!” and then it’s not just words, Sam’s being pushed back into a mass of bodies, being clawed at until the skin breaks on his face, until he can’t stand anymore and his legs give way, until—

“I told you to back the fuck up!” Gabriel. Must be. Please.

The swarm dissipates with harsh murmurs, the woman with the claws is dragged back by a male beta who puts down his picket that reads ‘don’t try to change nature’. Sam squirms away from its blood red lettering.

“Hey there, baby,” comes a voice that is specifically more female Gabriel’s. All alpha though. Sam’s omega perks a little, though with fear or apprehension Sam isn’t sure. He was getting away before, he should still. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing all the way out here, hmm?”

…he must be…maybe they hit him on the head, because that voice sounds awfully familiar to—

 _“Now stay still for me, baby, this might hurt just a little bit,” she said, stroking a thumb over the tip of his soft dick, stroking the silken skin there, manipulating it at her will like everything else in the whole world. ‘Might hurt’. Yeah._ Right _. ‘Might hurt’ would be a little injection—like the ones they used to get from doctors before the man with the beard came along with the scalpels, or jumping from a tree that jars your feet real bad. This…this_ always _hurt. This always hurt like hell._

 _“M-Mistress, I,” Sam tried, staring down at the neat, shiny selection of rods she has with her, all wrapped up in that black case, all brand new looking because Sam did as he’s told and she makes him clean them. He was good at that. He could be good. “Please, Mistress Abaddon, please,” he begged, tugging against the ropes binding him. “I’ll be good. Please just don’t…don’t do this, please._ Please _.”_

_“Baby, we know not to beg by now, don’t we, huh?” she tutted at him mockingly, shaking her head at his trembling lips. “Are we going to have to skip the small one?”…no. No. Please, fuck, no, he can’t—“Alright, if that’s what we need, baby.”_

_It hurt, like it always did._

She doesn’t…she doesn’t belong here.

Please, God, she doesn’t belong here.

“Sammy?” another voice, _matematematemate_ … “Jesus, kiddo, can you hear me?”

“I think they must have really startled him, poor thing,” and she’s there, she’s, she’s…

“Please,” Sam sobs, burrowing into the grip Gabriel now has on him, the soft, bitterly familiar body encasing his, keeping him upright. “ _Please, don’t let her near me!_ ”

He screams, Gabriel flinches, and Sam’s fucking _hysterical_ against his shirt, shoving his face back where it was a half hour ago, digging into the flesh that tastes like _his_ and feels _right_ and he can smell her, he can smell the rope, the blood, _please_ …

“Geez, Sam, it’s…it’s alright,” Gabriel offers haltingly, stunted as he holds Sam against him, rubs fingers against pressure points at his back that do nothing because Sam’s gone right now, he’s…and she’s…

“Just please, please, please, she’s gonna…don’t let her…please, Gabe, uh _ugh_ ,” Sam gulps, pushing closer, sucking in heaving breaths, needing to be away from her, just needing to be away from everyone, needing Dean, please, “I want Dean!” Sam sob-screams, suddenly beating at his alphas chest with white knuckled fists, but moving no further away. “ _Please!_ ”

“I’m gonna get you inside and we’re gonna let Pam take a look at you, okay, kiddo? She’s gonna do the quickest ultrasound ever and then we’re gonna get back in the car, and I’m taking you straight to Dean myself, okay? Kitten, I promise you. I swear to God, you’ll have Dean back before dinner, alright?”

“Please don’t let her near me,” Sam whispers into his throat, trembling at the mark he’s leaving there, red on silky cream skin. “I’ll…do anything you want, just don’t let her near me.”

“They’re not coming anywhere near you again, alright? Misguided fucks; I promise.”

“Did you hear what she said to him?” but he’s…he’s _lying_ because she’s closer than she was even a moment ago, she’s _right fucking there_ and Gabriel just _promised_.

“No, I didn’t—just tons of fucking screaming. What did she say?” Gabriel has him walking again, ensuring his head stays where it is, hidden from view, hiding things from him. Sam can’t…he _can’t_.

“Same thing he’s used to, I guess,” the witch says, walking with them, near them, close by and Sam’s about to hurt again, he can feel it. “Told him he deserved everything he’s been through because of what he is…she told you she’d do the same, didn’t she, baby?” she says and she’s talking to him, she’s talking to him in front of Gabriel and he’ll die before he ever sees Dean again and she’s touching him, she’s—

Sam can’t breathe, can’t breathe against Gabriel’s throat, sucking in dry breaths, whining, gasping, he can’t, _fuck_ —

“No, no, no, kitten, we’re not doing that are we, huh?” Gabriel says, and Sam’s being hauled up again, propped on a hip bone and balanced with a hand to his tailbone, pushing in, soothing, but it doesn’t matter—“Give us a sec, Josie, okay? And hey, maybe you can come by in a couple weeks once we’ve settled back in, come meet the boys properly? I’m sure Cas’d love to see you.”

_Once we’ve started fucking them properly._

This is it, then. The end.

“Sure thing. You be good, Sammy,” she says. A brush of fingers against his spine. He can’t do this anymore. He really fucking can’t.

“We’re going straight into the maternity ward, okay?” Gabriel tries, voice brimming with soothe-and-sate, but Sam’s not buying any of it. Not anymore. God, his _mate_? He’s not this monster’s mate. It’s Stockholm syndrome. That’s what it is. One of Sam’s _clients_ from his _pimp,_ Alastair, decided to be nice to him for a little while, tender him up, marinate him before sinking his fangs in. Maybe literally. Wouldn’t be the first time. Abaddon, _Mistress_ Abaddon, she tried enough times. Succeeded most times. Watch him bleed onto the spare bedroom sheets, cackle on her way out when Alastair made him try to suck the stains out.

Sam just needs Dean back for a second, convince him that they can’t trust no matter how much they really fucking want to, these alphas aren’t right. Sam can tell.

Gabriel drops him to a bed—where it all begins—and leaves him there, departs his arms gently from around his neck, uncurls his fingers. Sam doesn’t look up, doesn’t move beyond his trembles. All he can see is laminate flooring in blue tiles, the edge of a cream plastic-leather bed. He can hear his own laboured, jolted breaths in the air, nothing else.

Gabriel’s silent for the first time in a long time. He knows. He knows that Sam’s onto him. Onto his lies and tricks.

Jo comes in, moves to hug him, Sam growls and pushes himself backwards, against the wall, staring out at her from beneath his bangs, angry and betrayed and _not trusting_. Can’t trust anyone, not anymore. Crowley, he’s here, and Samandriel, they know Gabriel, and Abaddon, they all know them and Jo’s here so…no one. Trust no one. Get through this, get to Dean. If he’s not fucked dead already. Sam doesn’t know. He’ll find a bridge, a bath, a knife. He’ll join his brother soon.

“Sam…it’s me, buddy,” Jo says, stepping close again, palms outstretched. Sam snarls back at her, lips curling. Back the fuck off. “Okay, that’s okay. I’ll stay over here. You’re okay, Sam. Jesus, bud, you’re okay,” she breathes, frowning softly over at him before moving to join Gabriel. He can feel himself shaking, hear his quiet moans. He can see the want in their eyes, the lust. They want him out on this bed so they can fuck him, make him bleed and scream and beg.

They all do.

“Heya, handsome,” Dr Pamela says once she’s in the room with her doctor coat, shutting the door behind her. She’ll cut him open. Tear him apart. Sam watches her eyeing him for a second, watches the small smile soften onto her face. Knows he’s vulnerable. Knows he’s weak.

Sam’s growl increases in volume as she moves around the room, towards him, towards the desk beside the gurney.

“Not in the mood for a chat, huh?” she offers, chuckling a little as Sam makes sure he’s as close to the centre as he can get, not too close to Jo and Gabriel and nowhere near Dr Pamela. “That’s okay. All I need right now is an ultra sound, okay? Nothing too scary, nothing painful. I just need to make sure that pup’s as safe and cosy in there as possible.”

…Right. The pup.

Sam left Doll in the car.

“I…I want Doll, the doll, I…”Jesus, grow up, much? It’s a toy. A cheaply made toy with buttons for eyes. You don’t need it. Her. _Fuck_.

 _Sam wants her_.

“Done, kiddo,” Gabriel says, handing his car keys off to Jo. “Passenger seat.”

Jo nods in acquaintance, winking over at Sam before leaving through the same door she entered.

“Sam? Is that cool with you, kiddo?” Pamela asks, drawing back his attention.

As if his opinion counts. As though he has any decision whatsoever in the next step of his life, the next person to bend him over and put another baby inside him without his say-so. He glares up at her for a few seconds before shoving his gaze away, back to the laminate, the scratches near the cupboards where Sam assumes they had trouble installing them. Gabriel’s boots. The worn cuffs of his jeans.

He’s a dirty liar, just like the rest of them.

Sam…Sam’s never believed that, that whole thing about _the one_ , your Mate and destined partner. Never considered one for himself, never even thought…he was naïve. A fucking idiot. Gabriel isn’t made for him, Gabriel isn’t even compatible like other people think, one of the many of the planet you can mate with. Gabriel is nothing to him, beyond the alpha holding his papers.

Fucking _nothing_.

“Sam?” Pamela prompts. She’s sat in her swivel chair now, pushing it on the wheels until she’s closer to where Sam is on the bed, close enough that he scrambles back to the wall with a choked off growl. “An ultrasound. I think it’s safe to say we can avoid anything endochannel at the moment, so nothing’s going anywhere near you except your stomach, okay? Sam?”

“Dean…” Sam gulps, shoving his palms against fucked up eyes, puffy and leaking. “I want _Dean_.”

“As soon as we get you back to the centre, that’s exactly where you’ll be going, alright? Trust me, I think anymore separation of you two is gonna put extra stress on both you and the pup, so…I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I let that happen, now would I?”

Sam wants to shout; tell her she’s fucking shit at her job anyway, scream and kick things and shove something sharp into Gabriel’s shoulder. For lying to him. For being shit at his own job too, for letting the bad guys just…just… _be_. For letting them be _here_ , right outside the door, right next door and it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair, Sam needs his brother.

He can’t do anything, decide anything right now, without Dean. It’s like a drug, weighing down his physique. He _needs_ Dean.

“Straight after…I can have Dean back?” he murmurs, glancing quickly between the pair. Gabriel looks strained. He looks _found out_.

“The second we get you back. Promise.”

“Fine.”

*

The ultrasound goes pretty quickly. Sam growls when Gabriel tries to come into the room where the doctor takes him, hunches back and snarls up at him when he comes anywhere near and the alpha looks startled, but Pamela tells him to stay outside. Jo returns to drop off Doll. Sam keeps her up by his nose when he’s guided onto the weird bed-chair thing with his legs dangling off the edge. Sam doesn’t let Jo stay either.

It’s too early to know whether it’s a boy or girl.

He’s apparently six weeks pregnant. With “a good few months left yet, don’t you worry.” Sam wasn’t, really. Sam just needs touch. Touch from his big brother.

He’ll tell Dean. He’ll tell Dean and they’ll smile and scent and nuzzle and sleep decently for the first time in an age, and they won’t go near Gabriel or Castiel or anyone, Dean will protect them all and Sam will growl at everyone. They’ll celebrate together. Because Sam’s “as healthy as an ox in there.” That’s good.

It’s fine, it really is, when Pamela pulls his shirt back down, tells him all is well and that she’ll see him soon, but not too soon. She doesn’t ask him anything beyond standards, like “any pains?” or “no spotting, right?”

Sam’s okay now, because he’s going back to Dean. He can handle a simple car ride with a lying monster, as long as it’s Dean he’s headed towards.

That is…until they walk back through the room where they left Gabriel, where they were sat…and she’s stood there, with her cascading red hair, red lips, long nails and soft black dress. Where she smiles up at him like a shark when she sees him walk in. Talking to Gabriel. Laughing, Sam can tell. About what they’ll do to him together, how they’ll hurt him. And Sam can’t feel his legs any longer. Especially when she waltzes over to the bed and pats the plastic, aiming her predatory gaze over at him.

He can’t feel his fingers.

“Would it be okay if Sam and I had a quick chat?” she asks the room, glancing sweetly up at Gabriel, over to Dr Pamela. Jo’s gone again. Left him. With her. “Just about what we saw outside…I just wanted to explain a few things. You guys could give us a second, if that’s okay?”

Gabriel shrugs because he doesn’t care. Eyes Sam for a second, offers a half-hearted, “if that’s okay with you, buddy?” because he knows what’s about to happen.

Sam’s done. He’s just fucking…he’s done.

Pamela leaves him with a pat to his shoulder. Gabriel winks. And then…then it’s just him and her.

For about the twentieth time, Sam’s left with the monster to rival all monsters.

The demon.

“Come on now, Sammy, come sit with me, it’s okay,” she says with a sickening sweetness, rubbing at the patch of bed beside her. He’ll collapse any second anyway.

Watching Azazel die…that felt like closure for some stupid, childish, naïve reason. It felt like freedom; even with fear clenching his entire entity when this man dressed in black brought back the knife he’d dragged across his rapists throat, still stained in his blood. And even if his future was uncertain, even if they were being taken to another _pimp_ like Alastair, this section of their lives was over. It was _done_. But now…everything’s back, in one measly little hour, two terrifying beings that have plagued his nightmares, witnessed humiliation like nothing else…they’re back in his life.

His past is beckoning.

“I want you to sit down next to me, Sam. Do you want to disobey?”

Fuck, no.

_Never does well to disobey, never disobey a Mistress._

Sam sits beside her in docile obedience, head bowed for her, nape displayed. She tuts thoughtfully down at him, considering. Sam just…prepares.

“I’m sure you’ve put together what’s going on here, hmm?” she asks, clawed nails stroking along his spine. “Smart little thing you are.”

Sam waits a few seconds, stalls, hesitates…but he nods. He nods, because…he does know. He understands. Gabriel wants to use him. To fuck him, just like all the others.

“Good boy,” she croons, scratching along his tender skin, inciting a violent shiver. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be gentle. Once he gets rid of that bastard inside you once and for all, you two can start a family of your own, hmm?”

He…they wouldn’t… _Sam fucking **won’t**_ —

“Shshshsh, sweetie, you knew it had to happen, didn’t you?” she says, ducking until their eyes meet, hazel against _burning red_. “He’ll make it quick, I’m sure. Slip something into your morning tea, if you know what I mean,” she winks. She fucking winks, like ripping his own pup from him isn’t the same as taking his arms, or his legs. She’ll kill him, in the end. Sam always knew it would be her. “Now Sam, I need you to promise me something, alright, and if you go back on it, we’re going to have a problem—and by problem I mean I’ll cut your guts from your body while Dean watches, do the same to him and then tie them together, see how long your precious animal lasts then.” Her smiles turns vicious like _that_ , animalistic once more and _vile_. It could be hers, all they know. Sam could be carrying a little red headed beast inside of him.

He’ll…he’ll still love it. He will.

Please god, he will.

“You promise me,” she snarls, suddenly, and the stroke along his neck turns familiar, deadly, and he’s back in her snare once more. Sam nods. Dazedly keeps her gaze, eyes swimming in unshed tears. “Good,” she offers, grip only tightening. Sam chokes slightly, but says nothing. “You don’t talk to them about us, do you understand? All the things we did…you don’t utter a single word of it to your new alpha. For your sake, baby,” she purrs, and her grip loosens once more and Sam wants it back, wants it back now, because…because the other hand is trickling down his abdomen, teasing at his lap and she’s gripping him down there, she’s touching him again, nonono…

“’Cause if Gabriel finds out just what a used little animal you really are…he’s not going to want to go near you, is he, hmm? He’ll discard you. Maybe kill you. Definitely kill Dean. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

And her hand is back where it always is, taunting him and gripping and hurting. He whines into the scent-drained air, whimpers, scrambles away, but it doesn’t matter.

Gabriel comes back into the room then, holds the door open for Sam, smiles and nods goodbye at the Mistress.

Back out in the waiting room, they all stare once more. Especially when Abaddon calls for them, reminds him, “remember what I said, baby. Could come in handy sometime,” and attention is drawn over.

Sam doesn’t care.

His gaze brushes through them for a second, landing finally on the blonde boy with one eye and the older female alpha, with long, straight black hair, Asian. Beautiful.

He doesn’t glare this time though. Perks, maybe, from where he’s slouched, eyes him with a tilted head.

He nods, in acquaintance. Sam just…follows after his new alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Sammy drops again!!  
> Flashbacks to a forced sounding session between Sam and Abaddon, as well as some pervy touching, so be warned, the bitch is back.
> 
> All will be revealed, so don't worry too much my chickens.


End file.
